


A Fool to Love You

by MadameBizarre



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2003), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: A Fool to Love You by Mitski, A relationship in a few parts but the beginning is gradually revealed throughout it, Even when they get together the pining continues, F/M, HAVE CUSTOM SKIN ON, Human/Monster Romance, Mutual Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Tension, Size Difference, and they were ROOMMATES
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2020-07-19 13:01:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 48,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19974493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameBizarre/pseuds/MadameBizarre
Summary: It was inevitable she would become attracted to him. Mutant or not, her mind taunts her with fantasies, and unknowingly he too is set ablaze by the mere thought of her.A look at two fools fumbling around the fact that they want so much more, and how they finally get to it.





	1. To want a love that can't be true

It was inevitable she would become attracted to him. Who wouldn’t for a man caring and tender as he. Albeit he was not a man in the traditional sense -- a seven foot mutant gator-croc was not what people considered ‘normal’ -- Leatherhead was nonetheless one in his own way. Perhaps months before she would have never considered him a possible date, with valid reasoning too since he was all sharp edges and menacing shadows, but now she wished it were possible to take him topside and sit at a nice little cafe for coffee. A prime example of ‘beauty from within’, he had proved more than once that no other (human, mutant, or otherwise) could compare. Illnesses be damned, Leatherhead owned up to his mistakes unlike most she knew, sought to better himself for them, and she was there to support him -- bouts of anger, depression, and all. It had taken time to trust her as he did now, summing up to his eyes dilating back to normal as she fearlessly held his head close. They were practically a couple, if either of them could speak upon it -- if he even felt the same.

Sometimes she could swear he did, because she would feel the lingering gazes on her back, as if it were hard to ignore those eyes of a ferocious predator. When her hands were on him a look of wistfulness would overcome him as well, as though he were observing just how different and contrasting they were; his hand engulfed both of her’s with ease, his were claws sharp enough that he would not dare point her way, and his skin was rough against her smooth flesh. Those were the big signs anyone could see, from the turtles to April, she could not be the only one. The smaller tellings were the kind perhaps one or two of her exes had ever cared to show during their time together, yet even then she was not as confident with them as she was now with the mutant. Texting her every evening how her day was, if she needed anything before she went home or came over, whether she was safe and feeling good, what would be the plan for dinner if they were having it together. They were all so domestic, the result of sleeping over in his home for the majority of their shared time. He knew what blanket of his was her favorite, there were three pillows designated for her (the rest were all for his bigger form), the storage in his kitchen held their favorite teas (a merged taste at this point) and her own preferred snacks alongside his, there was now a sofa next to his recliner, and so much more that would take too long to count. Perhaps the smaller things were actually larger and far more noticable. In the end the picture was loud and clear: they were living together and there was something more. 

If there wasn’t, then she’d be so embarrassed. How horrifying it would be to look too deep into their relationship only to find it just like any other. Stuck with a crush that was not reciprocated was an experience she never wanted to be in again; highschool had never been her favorite years. The only difference from then was her mind, unabashed and filled with girlish fantasies that would make her millions if written down. That was how she had realized her feelings were far more than friendly. One simple brush of hands -- he had helped her up after a nasty fall while rehearsing -- and her face had flushed like after a performance with a packed audience in the Lincoln Center. The sensation of leather and scale on fluid flesh brought an electric tingle up her veins, heating her blood like no other as pictures began to fill her mind. Splashes of warm honey-brown, strokes of olive green, with large bristles followed closely by tinier ones, creating long languid lines down a white canvas that soon became a mess of browns and greens. If he had lingered as he tended to, then both sure as hell were doing it together.

Did it make her a freak to ache for a touch that could end in gashes and blood? She didn’t long for the pain, but that seemed to be the only logical result with his poweress no matter how hard he attempted control. There seemed to be no end to what her body desired when it came to him. The moment her eyes closed he was there. Goofy smile, awkward shoulders, sharp fangs, scattered pattern of scales, and if she was feeling extra frisky, pupils the shape of crescent moons. Lethal as they were, phantasms of claws ghosting over her taut stomach erupted little bumps under her skin; palms larger than her face fitting perfectly between her thighs, firm and steady, made her legs cross; strength that could possibly hold her in ways like no other brought foolish notions of being stroked  _ just  _ right in the most fantastical positions. Oh, and his voice, gruff and musical in her own opinion. He could reach an octave that oozed confidence, or drop to a contemplative tone that hurt her heart. A phone call could do no justice to the way it burrowed in her ears, bouncing deep within her body towards her core. If she was a freak so be it.

Unfortunately this meant less nights in his home, on his bed of mattresses, buried under a shared blanket (her favorite of his was used for hugging these days), with his long, fluid body there to press against when it was cold. Disciplined as she was, in the world of dreams there were no barriers, only lucid sensations that would set off a chain of events neither of them were ready for. And he noticed the lack of her as well, because his questioning came within weeks.

“It is not my place to bring up, but you haven’t been down here in week now.”

She had been on the sofa, both feet soaking in a tub of ice water. Her head lifted from the magazine in her lap to see his back at the lab table. “Yeah, have to keep up appearances or else they’d think I was missing.” She had practiced her excuses.

“No we would not want to worry anyone.” He raised a beaker of clear liquid and stared at in under the light. This was one of the ways he kept himself regulated: distracting his mind. She had noticed it a few times when he was upset, and what was more upsetting than your closest friend not being around (avoiding you, if he was practiced in social experiences to realize it).

She could have kept it there, but her heart began to ache. “There’s no easy way to say I’m pretty much roommates with a gator-croc underground.”

“...we’re roommates?”

“Well, yeah -- you can’t tell me it wasn’t obvious.” Or was this another part of her looking too deep into matters?

She watched him swirl the beaker, eyeing the way his lab coat formed to his backside so well, showing off his heavy torso, then hanging off his slender middle, and finally draping over his large tail. When he turned his head to give her a side-glance, her lips turned upward at the image. “It sounds far lovelier spoke aloud rather than in my mind.”

And he seemed to have caught his slip up, for he turned his full attention back to his rack of test tubes and flattened specimens on the desk. She could only imagine his face turning a shade of scarlet under the small plates over his maw, and longed to see it -- proof she was not a fool. 

Well if he was going to slip up, so was she, only better. “Agreed, you’re an amazing bedmate.” far better than any other person or stuffed companion she had ever slept beside.

Whatever the effect that had on him, there was no indication. She longed for him to cough, accidently break something -- hell, turn around and throw a glare heated by  _ more  _ than embarrassment. Her mind went haywire again, painting pictures of burning lava and heavy claw tears. There was nothing -- save his self-discipline -- stopping him from striding over to her with risque intentions clear in his demeanor. The sores on her feet from rehearsal be damned, she would happily stand and jump into his large arms even if he would only meet her half-way there. The sofa would last a good few minutes before it would begin to break under their (his) weight, but that was all they would need if they were to be on one another at that momen. What a tale that would be too.

Nothing happened though, leaving them in stagnated silence as opposed to the comfortable one earlier. Her mind could not focus as it had, fighting against further details surrounding their imagined coupling. The heat was pooling at the tip of her core, begging for her thighs to press tighter for relief, but she did not oblige. 

“Tomorrow I’ll be back, it’s the weekend so it won’t cause an uproar.” It sounded so childish to talk about it, as though she were a highschooler once more trying to sneak away with lies. Her fellow tenants were not pests as she was making them sound, but then at the same time they  _ were _ ever since she began sleeping down below without a mention of it. Some had speculated she had a secret lover, which was not far from the truth in perspective. Annoying and intrusive, her excuse was not a lie, backed up by the gossip around her personal life.

“I’ll have the bed nice and warm for you.”

And whether or not he was playing the game she felt to have officially started, or simply that naively sweet, it was no help for her heated mind that would engulf her that night as she curled into her small, cold bed. Or  _ once  _ cold bed, because with him clouding her imagination, everything would be set in flames. At night she would burn under the thick, featherdown blanket as a hand frantically swept over her swollen nub. The ache in the center of her cunt would sting so painfully, yet her wrist couldn’t move any quicker or press any harder to alleviate it; her nights were longer than ever, but she supposed the reason was his superior form and abilities that no other man could meet even in her imagination. The worst part was her fingers: unable to fill her like before. Two usually did it, three on occasion, but four? That was frightening, specifically when they did little to aid her feverish pumping -- and she wouldn’t dare put a whole  _ fist  _ in there, strangely more horrifying than a toy larger than it. Each slap of her soaked palm against wet folds that glistened from her point of view was gorgeous, and irritating as the leg shaking ecstasy did little. The whole ordeal became horribly tiring rather than reliving by her fourth attempt. The first time she had dejectedly laid there after the initial orgasm, it had been clear she was not feeling the typical glow during or after, and the next few confirmed she would not be able to achieve that feeling with her usual skills; the fourth try finally had her snap, filling her with determination to get what she wanted (or something to mimic it at least).

A mistake, a huge one at that, on account that her quest found a solution in no time through her fellow dancer and friend -- her  _ best  _ friend since moving to New York. A click of a mouse, then a two-day wait, and finally it was there: half her forarm’s thickness, but the same length elbow to wrist. Starting out slow and steady sounded like a logical plan, but it seemed like she had put too much on her plate. She always said  _ ‘why have a whopper when I could have a Big Mac with fries and a large drink? _ ’ Foolishly, though, she also always forgot her trouble finishing even  _ that _ . Thus she was left staring at her new toy with doubt like lead in her stomach, repeating the same old, same old she had since realizing she had a romantic interest in the mutant:  _ ‘You’re so fucken foolish.’ _ There was no stopping her though. Slow and steady, patience and determination, both of which continually made her laugh as she hyped herself up. If she could endure twelve years of ballet classes three times a week for five hours a day, long performances, and seven years in companies where she had done a few solos, then she could take what was only described as a ‘monster cock’ on the website. And if she had overestimated her companion, then she would be  _ more  _ than ready if she ever was brave enough to confess.

The latter was  _ another  _ foolish and dumb frusteration of the whole ordeal, but that was self-analysis for later.

She had an itch to scratch.

* * *

Did she feel the same as he? Was he delusioned in what he thought might be more than what it seemed? It did not take a scientist to see his lingering gaze had gone noticed; she would stop for a split second, and the moment she turned to peek back his eyes would be elsewhere. They were innocent enough, especially in the beginning while in awe with her elegant movements. Her limbs were toned, long, and made little to no sound, as if she were gliding. She was like a ribbon, or even strokes of ink by a quill, nimbly going about his home like some sort of nymph sent to distract him. She would rehearse her dances, then flounce with twirls and sudden on-pointe poses as she partook in simple tasks like making coffee, all the while glowing under the artificial lights his world offered. He observed the fake yellow and white hues dance off her tawny skin, pale in the poor excuse of lighting; in photos where the sun was bright, he could see it’s glare give the red undertones of her flesh justice as she took a darker hue. Nevertheless, she shone like a natural light in his dark world, causing a realization: he had never been so bitter of living in the sewers until she came and shared the sun with him. The longer he gazed upon her, the more wicked he felt.

His feelings had grown naturally over the time they knew one another. It felt like years had passed instead of the simple one and half of being together. She was an anchor to reality and the Earth whenever he felt his feral instincts kick in, or depression washed over him. Her wide grin with the two crooked teeth and one metal cap was his own personal sunshine; when her long, skinny fingers would wrap around his own she would gently rub them together, grounding him to the concrete floors. The simple touches started out so sweetly, then wantonly as the sensation of smooth flesh over leather scales warmed him. Finally he would stare -- his sharp claws and large hand a grim reminder of their differences: a human and a mutant (an alien one at that too). He’d taken down hundreds of humans in his lifetime, been  _ hurt  _ by them in the most despicable ways, yet he yearned for her touch -- to feel her fingers trace the shape of every little plate on his hardened skin, feel her body heat so close to his. The muscles in his arms would flex, prepared to catch them both off guard with scooping her up and cocooning her against his chest. It was dangerous to have her down below with him, but he ignored the cautionary flags in his mind in favor of the desires in his heart. 

And desire he did, for it never stopped after that. Maybe he had more time under his belt to let his feelings grow, because until her little accident during what he learned was a grand jeté, she had never looked to him like that. A nasty bit of a fall from her own tired shaky limbs, the thud echoed throughout his chamber, perking him from the workbench. Before either of them knew it he was beside her, fighting the urge to pick her up by offering a hand for support instead. It was then he saw her eyes take on a whole new gleam, but it was also then he realized how lovely she looked below him, neck craned upwards with her Hazel eyes wide in what he could only describe as tenderness --  _ yearning,  _ if he let his heart do all the thinking. Even when she was safely on the sofa and he was crouched so he could apply first-aid to the scratched knee, her stare bore into his -- tempting him to lean in and count the little flecks of dual color. A lovely sight that was sometimes brown with green, other times the opposite, and occasionally only brown. If he had followed such a simple act, he knew for a fact it would escalate further. He’d want to cradle her face in his horrible hands, part her glossy lips with the large pad of his thumb, pull her close until her legs were stretched to accommodate him between her hot thighs, trail his heavy tongue over her buttery smooth flesh and taste her sweet essence. He could see it so vividly that his stomach would churn from the spike in heat burning down his veins, and his chest rose faster with each passing second. These lascivious thoughts and emotions had grown, but not out of hand fortunately, though definitely at such a cruel time. He had come to terms with his moments of rage, they were only natural with the torture he had endured by Bishop’s hands, and her patience and courage were a big help towards calming himself; he could call her to talk it out, or even imagine her voice leading him into meditation. So to now crave her touch in a less than friendly ways was a new loop the universe had thrust upon him. Hadn’t he been through enough friendship destroying afflictions for one lifetime? Did he even want to truly act on his new feelings and risk losing the only other (besides Donatello) person he could talk to and trust? He could handle his issues alone these days, but her presence just made it all the easier.

He’d keep quiet until he  _ had  _ to pull away, or hopefully she could possibly grow and admit her own feelings. A hard task on his part since she was with him for the better part of the week (month even). It was no longer a ‘bachelor pad’ as Michaelangelo and Raphael proclaimed it, instead a symbiotic habitat between him and his female companion. There were more than a dozen signs of her living there, the domestically obvious being her comfort food, lounge wear, pile of pointe shoes, and of course hygienic and skin care products. The latter two had taken time, innocent convincing on his part that she could shower in his curtained off washroom, and necessity on her part with the need to wash up before and after work. A mistake, a horrible, regret filled mistake that was one of the underlying signs only a mutant (or anyone with keen senses) could sense. Such a lovely aroma of vanilla and cinnamon, like a fresh pastry out of the oven being drenched with sweet icing. Whatever she touched clung to her scent as if they wanted him to suffer. It tied a knot around the little fibers of his makeshift bed and their sofa. The moment he parted the curtains to bathe he would flinch, taking a step back as if hit physically. A trail he could trace her every movement with; an annoying distraction lodged in his nose. Made worse when dried sweat engulfed her skin, mixing a natural musk to the beguiling perfume and body wash she boasted. Relief only came with the recent month or so. She had gradually stayed over night less and less, giving him much needed space to grab his bearings and release the pent up tension in his shoulders and between his thighs.

Never on their bed where they slept in comfortable companionship -- he could never besmirch the place she found safety in.

Always in the large tub which laid flat on the cold floor, ready to wash away any all filth that filled it.

Embarrassingly to the thought of her imperfectly perfect grin and pouty lips ; her languid twirls and strong limbs that rose and stretched with practiced ease in the most difficult ways; and like a heavy curtain over his being, her aroma, always teasing at his nose. What started as cautious beginnings now easily turned into something of a chore as he grew confident each time. Starting with paranoid thoughts that he may caught, that  _ she  _ may find out, soon began its descent into ecstasy with each passing minute. Silent and tamed, flames which overtook his veins and muscles, sweat washing over his leathery skin with a shameful gleam. Faster and faster to obtain more and more electric bolts into his swollen arousal, whether by squeezing his fingers tighter, or rolling his hips into the barren air. Betrayed by his own mind her voice would ring out so vividly, crying for more, reaching her hands to bring him closer to her body -- so small compared to his; wearing only her rehearsal outfit of a leotard and mesh tights showing off the tanned skin underneath. She brought him comfort, making him believe he could do her no wrong with the trust shining in her eyes. The moment his peak hit with a less than quiet growl, reality crashed all around, burying his fantasies under guilt and disgust. How could she trust him when he did foul things like this?

How could he trust  _ himself _ to not hurt her when his entire being was sharp and heavy --  _ monstrous. _

The aftermath of his containment in Bishop’s horrible labs -- where polished metal and loud whirring overwhelmed him -- left Leatherhead scarred. Not only emotionally, but physically, with long faded craters in his torso he could not hide under clothing. They were his proof of what talons could do with no more but a simple motion; an instrument of science, or a naturally grown part of a creature, there was little difference when he was the latter. She had seen the damage Bishop had done internally, but only knew the surface of the external cruelties. If a man like Bishop could do this to him (a mutant twice the human’s size), then he could do the same by accident to his dearest friend. Even if they were ever to be together, the anxiety of one mistake happening would hang over them both; her fall had been a mistake, and that almost cost her a career haltering broken ankle -- enough data for him to validate these fears. 

Was it a blessing that his contempt for humans after his torture finally cooled after meeting her? She never alarmed his instincts to keep away, maybe because they had met during a vulnerable moment for her where a gentle confession of anxiety to a man in the sewers outside a theatre touched his heart. He could always see her snugly tied pointe shoes back then, and the moment she had crouched to thank him for his listening ear, he was filled with happiness as she flashed a pretty smile. Tentatively the months passed, their hands touched, their hearts opened, and his animosity subsided. Had  _ she  _ ever felt a flourish of flight beg her to run from his lumbering form? He could not blame her if she admitted it, but he already felt it true without her even saying so. It was a blessing he was once again at ease like before his days strapped to a sterile, iron bed, yet also brought so many new fears, that many days it did not feel worth it.

She was no help either, because she flirted with him like it was nothing. First and foremost in obvious jest as friends did, and now with a teasing wink as if she were testing the waters. Not enough to give him the assurance to confess, but just enough to make his eyes threaten to turn narrow from rushes of blood boiling desire. His mind simply went wild when her hips swung side to side in plain view for him. Not the most buxom girl unless emphasised in her rehearsal clothes and costumes; she had a chest almost flat as a table, and only the muscles in her legs as cushion; she was not what magazines and television shoved into the public eye, but it was enough for  _ him _ . She sure as hell knew how to use what she owned, for there was no denying it had caught the gaze of others in her life -- past or present. He hated to think about the people topside who she flirted with in serious ways, who could be under the sun with her amongst the public, and the past lovers who broke her heart, because it all sent a horrifying swarm of jealousy over him, and that just wasn’t fair. She would not like it, they were not binded in a monogamous relationship, there was no valid reason for him to demand her for himself when her life was her own. No matter how hard he turned from those thoughts, hey still lingered. If she liked to flirt with those she liked, then she could and with only her own consent and no one else’s leading the way; if he wanted to act like a dumb beast, he could, and he’d only prove that he did not deserve her favor. He would take whatever she graced him with and be happy, then quietly pay it back with a smidgen of bitterness over her cruel teasing. Without a doubt it was a game, one that she always initiated. It was in his nature to enjoy a good game too, whether from his mutation or Bishop’s own tampering, and pridefully he was quick learner of the rules. The only new addition was his desire to  _ win _ and drive her to put a foot down in either confirmation she was only playing, or finally to admit something more. 

Did these little bouts of war mean she was not averse to seeing him in a less-than-friendly way? If she could bear to lay her hands on him without hesitation any more, that meant she was ok with him. If she could look upon him without wide eyes, for longer than a few tense minutes, that meant she was accustomed to him. If she could lay with him in a bed where he would wake up many times practically spooning with her, then surely that meant she trusted him...and then something? He had little experience or knowledge with romantic or sexual situations, and what he did know did not match the intensity of affection he held for her. Their games felt like the beginning of something more, but with the way  _ she  _ went about them and acted afterwards, it seemed she too was a tad lost, perhaps because it was treading new grounds since her other partners had been human -- easier to approach. It made logical sense, and if Leaterhead was one thing, it was genius enough to be logical.

It was the long, introspective days like these that lead him to believe that  _ this  _ would be the day a confession would come from him. All the anxieties and tightness in his body were just too much, but every day he kept his maw shut,

With luck, she’d find someone else (no matter how much the thought made his heart clench), and slowly forget about the sewers.

It was the only safe path for them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I WAS gonna just make this one big thing, but I'm impatient. There will be probably three chapters of ATLEAST 11 (then maybe more) pages, which look over the major milestones in this relationship.


	2. I'm a fool to hold you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scene from part 1 continued with LH's POV.

The new atmosphere may have become awkward, but Leatherhead did not regret his turn in their game. She had started that round, and now he had ended it with a hidden smirk. Admittedly he was being childish about winning, but it was a valid play on the board; each final, flustered silence an advancement to wherever their pieces were heading. A round of chess with no end in sight, only satisfaction with a vague sense you were provoking a reaction in your favor. He could stand there for hours, swirling beakers to mix his formulas and taking notes on chemical reactions. Awaiting the moment she would stride towards him on silent feet, only the scent of vanilla perfume indication of her presence nearby. He longed for her fingers brushing the scales of his arm, to feel them trail down his forearm slowly to erupt a shiver down his spine; to see her hazel eyes shine up towards him and gleam under the desk lamps with brazen lust. There would be no doubt her desired reaction in his imagination was to have him finally pull them flushed together, and he would be weak to stop himself from succumbing…but of course, this was all in his head, and she still sat on their couch, aggravating him with her lack of weakness.

“OH! I almost forgot to mention about the new performance!”

A small pang of guilt wiggled into his heart. It wasn’t a responsibility for him to text her asking how she was, but doing so had become like second nature. For the past week there was no time, nor did he have the courage when his mind seemed to enjoy making him suffer, bringing forth memories of his nights alone. A cringe would overcome him each time he went for his phone, and now was fortunately saved with his back turned so she could see it.

“Anything I might know?” He kept his voice even despite his flinching.

“Maybe, but I know ballet isn’t up your alley.” The sound of water sloshing was followed by a hiss and muttering of  _ ‘cold!’ _

“You are correct, but I like listening to you gush.” 

“Good, because I’m excited! We’re doing _Giselle_ and I have the titular role!” She began and he pushed the rack of beakers aside. Turning he saw she had pushed the bucket of ice water and Epsom salt across the floor so her legs stretched out and her body slumped back. The line of her body was one long path that bemoaned  _ ‘tired.’ _ A contrast to the smile on her lips that glistened with red-tinted chap-stick. He had watched her apply it once she was situated, leaving him to smell the cherry flavoring with bitterness.

“I’ve done it once before, this time is different though. We’re gonna have big budget costumes.”

“Polished jewels from the costume shop included?”

“Absolutely,  _ plus  _ a big stage for me to frolic around as I dance myself to death.”

His mind wandered, filled with images of her under the spotlight following every jump and twirl as she flowed on the imaginary stage. He knew nothing about the story or it’s setting, leaving his lovestuck mind to adorn her brown, tawny skin with silver encrusted emeralds and rubies against a jade leotard and skirt. Each lift of her leg draped over by skirts that would flutter with the rush of air; her long, dark hair tight in a bun, revealing creamy skin glittering like little diamonds under the light. The dream was cut short as he remembered his inability to watch her performance unless he could be as silent as a phantom and sneak his way in like his turtle friends. He was no Phantom of The Opera when he was over seven-feet tall with a maw almost half as long as an average human’s height. No cloak could hide his lumbering form from wandering eyes, just like no office box would let him pass without creaking. The best he would obtain was the orchestra’s boisterous playing from under floorboards amongst the pipes, perhaps right outside the backdoor if he was lucky with the theater’s architectural design.

He must have made a face while daydreaming, because she was making one as well -- lips wilting and eyes soft. Quickly he cleared his throat with a raise of a fist. “I’m sure death by dancing would be your favorite way to go, but I’d be sad if that happened.”

“Well, that’s what happens to Giselle in te ballet. She has a weak heart she dances with when it’s broken by her beloved.”

“Ah, a tragedy with romance then.”

“Yes, she falls for a peasant, only to find out he’s a nobleman with a fiance. It’s a very common and classic ballet.”

“I see,” He began to remove his lab coat; now would be a good time to clean up and spend some time with her before she left for the bus. Turning his back to her once more he began to fold. 

“I look forward to seeing you in costume.”

“Good, I’ll meet you like usual before the performances.” She said matter-of-factly. “ Mind if I also get a ride back down here on the nights I can’t uber to my apartment?”

By ride she meant on his back after dropping into the nearest manhole, or better yet, picked up at a nearby street by him and the turtles to their lair where he would then -- still -- give her a piggyback ride to their own chambers. It never bothered him to help out like so, knowing dancing was no easy easy task even with years of it under her belt. The best he could assist with the pain was press Icy-Hot packs to her aching calves, hand her lotions to calm the pain, and let her lounge around on the sofa. Seeing her exhausted face do it’s best to smile and thank him was worth it. He would do -- and had done so -- for the turtles, and his female companion was no different, if not more inclined with his romantic feelings.

“Not an issue, I’ll ask Donatello if he’s free some nights so we may use the battle shell.” 

“Awesome -- I love that nerd.” She raised a hand to flash a thumbs up.

The silence eased into comfortable again as he placed the coat aside and began to screw lids onto his beakers and vials. A common scene between them which he took comfort in; it seemed most of what took place between them did that though, mundane as it all was. As though they were a regular duo enjoying an average day above the sewers. He could forget about his monstrous figure for a few hours, then let the feeling of domestic bliss put them both in a picturesque situation. Even if they were romantically together, he knew it would still only be a dream in the end, but surely it would be one both could share as two people trying to make things work. At last when he shooed those fantasies away, there was truly no real difference between them and reality, because without commitment or anatomical similarities, the bliss was still there. They were both together and cozy in their lair under New York.

“Oh, and the best part!”

“Hm?” He began to look through the cabinets and drawers, searching for the bar of soap she had grabbed him topside.

“One of my partners in Giselle is a good pal of mine! I totally lucked out he got the role.”

Dear stars above did he  _ hate  _ himself; the mere utterance of  _ ‘he’ _ creating a ripple effect through his entire being. Realization that her ‘pal’ was a male quickly filled his mind, then the fit of jealousy formed into anger which overtook his heart. For a horrifying moment Leatherhead feared losing control -- brows furrowing in a snarl -- but he took action fast. He froze, both hands above his head and threatening to tear the cabinet clean off its hinges, then he did the best he could in taking a calming breath. The fury turned into self-hatred, disgusted that he was irrationally feeling possessive, and finally fear: he was truly a beast. A ridiculous one too, because the situation was also that: ridiculous. Everytime her tone took a turn into heightened adoration at the mention of someone she knew topside -- it didn’t matter who, since she could love anyone who earned it, himself being an example -- Leatherhead found the green beast within boil and flood his veins like a true illness. This someone being a man pathetically provoked feral instinct as well, as though there was a fight for dominance to be hand, only adding salt to the mutant’s wound; how primal and ludicrous of his evolved mind and body to still be prone to this. Was he not a mutant of science and rationality now?

She definitely did not notice or else she would have been by his side in a heartbeat. Instead she continued to gush whereas he suddenly desired her not to, or at least to change the topic now. 

“He plays the peasant, Hilarion, to my Giselle. I trust the guy when we dance, so it’s gonna be fun having him lift me up and stuff.”

Putting his hands on her waist, dangerously moving her across the wooden floor and lifting her up high; he had seen her fall once already by herself, and if another person was to be at fault, he feared for  _ that _ man’s life.

“Riley's real cool, really kind and sweet. Super big too,``she tossed the magazine on her lap onto a stack by the armrest. “I think if he revved his workout he could reach like your shoulders, and be like... _ almost  _ as wide as you, ha!” She chuckled.

Perhaps dropping her wasn't an issue if this Riley was as big as she boasted, but the thought of him having her so close, dancing intimately as Ballet intended partners be, continued to bother the mutant; it was absurd how the emotion was overtaking him.

“But then, my other partner’s a jackass gets on my last fucking nerve.”

Another partner would have sent him slinking out the lair to cool down, but her voice was venomous with every word. She really did seem to dislike this other man, for Leatherhead had scarcely heard her so heated in so long.

“I  _ hate  _ him, LH, I really do. He can act serious when we are being watched, but when it’s just us he’s an absolute ass ...I don’t trust him. I’m afraid he’s gonna fuck it all up and let me fall.”

Was she...crying? He stopped what he was doing, and twisted his upper body to see her better. No tears, but definitely upset from the way she glared at her feet and shook her head. The anger dissipated, leaving him heartbroken with how distressed she appeared. This was not the first time they had been in this situation -- it was how they had met after all, but those had been lapses of anxiety and nerves. This was different, with no end to her fears when the show had to go on. He knew the main relief was this other man working seriously to ease her worries, but that sounded like a miracle waiting to happen, thus leaving the mutant to figure out other ways to soothe her despair.

Quickly he made his way to where she sat -- slumped in defeat. Just as she did for him, Leatherhead pressed the back of his hand against her cheek, softly and slowly as he caressed one large finger against her forlorn expression. Readily she seemed to lean into his touch, brushing her lashes against his scales contentedly. His heart ached, entranced by her actions, touched by the lack of hesitation or disgust despite those days between them being long gone. She sniffled and he fell to one knee by her lap -- his other hand instinctively laying protectively over her knee. She was warm, so warm that his body demanded he take her into his arms so he could cool her down. His physiology adapted to the damp sewers everyday, assisted mechanically only in winter when the ice reached below New York’s streets; he could cool her down from the spike in heated distress she was in with such abilities. Oh, but to hug her well, and savor the plushness of her body with it’s robust muscle squeezing him tight to find comfort, that would heaven for not just him but her. He knew it true from their past embraces and her wild grins.

“My dear, please -- I’m sorry you have to endure fools like that.” His voice was low and gentle in his best attempt of a soothing tone.

“No, no, there’s no need for that.” Her chuckle was shaky and eyes crinkled from her wide, grateful smile; nevertheless she was a sad scene to behold, albeit her attempts at changing the mood was admirable.

“I’ll live, because everyone will know it was not me, but him -- stupid-ass Antone.” 

There was no thought when his thumb began to rub soothing circles into the pale-brown flesh of her knee; by then his finger had also become his whole hand on her head, and her cheek her whole face-- fitting perfectly in his loose grasp as the pad of that thumb pressed delicately against her cheek as well.

“You can always reach me if you are in need of a listening ear.”

She closed her eyes, her weak smile revealing a smidgen of her teeth. “I know, you always give me strength.” 

_ “And you do for me.” _ Was his desire to whisper, yet he could not. Dare he open his mouth to speak, he’d be vulnerable towards keeping himself in check. The yearning his body felt would overwhelm his better nature and threaten to surge him forward for something far more intimate than either of them were prepared for. There were so many ways he could alleviate her restless mind: a swipe of his tongue against her down turned lips (tasting if her chap-stick truly was cherry), a dangerous press of his maw to her neck (eliciting pleasant goosebumps down her very being), or even loving stroke under her shirt (a gentle massage all over her heated flesh). Such simple acts anyone else  _ but him  _ could enact and ease her with, not only because of beastly form, but lack of permission as only a friend; it was torture to only do the bare minimum, yet he was not ungrateful. She did not seem to mind either way, because she pressed deep into his hold -- silky plump lips smoothing over his leathery skin and leaving hot trails that burned down his entire arm.

“I’m just being a big baby.” Her shoulder shook with faint laughter.

“Do not say that, you are very reasonable in your stress.”

“My mom would call me a cry-baby all the time.” She sniveled. “I know it’s okay to cry, but I still...I feel so stupid.” 

Hot tears began to roll down not only her face, but his hand as well, scorching against his careful touch. He would have cried alongside her if not for the outrage he felt against this human man who was causing this internal pain. The pad of his thumb swiped away her tears, heedful to his claw near her closed eyes. Obviously she was holding back her sobs, allowing only the tears and sniffles be heard; he would not tell her, but a few hiccups had escaped too. She was always like this, creating walls to keep herself from looking like anything  _ but  _ a strong professional. Embarrassing was how she described this kind of moment, more than once insulting how she looked and sounded when she dropped all her barriers and let the tears falls. And as honored as he was to be allowed behind each wall, he also hurt each time her self-hatred reared its ugly head. Hypocritical of him since he too kept what few walls he had left after trusting her (such as the romantic feelings he felt), but he was far beyond holding back his tears or keeping his demons bottled up. Thus seeing her do exactly that was painful. Knowing from experience the consequences, fueling Leatherhead to care for her as his friends had for him...or he would have had she not took one last inhale from her nose and let a shaky laugh loose.

“Ok, fuck this.” She pulled away from his hand (had she cried herself flushed, or?) “No more of this, that’s enough tears for one day.” 

Letting his hand fall to the armrest, Leatherhead watched as she hurriedly rubbed her eyes with both hands -- front, back, and heel of palms. There was no denying the admiration he felt in the way she pulled herself back together, erasing the evidence of any breakdown having happened. That took confidence in her skills to hide the dark tracks down her cheeks, calm her stuttering breathes, and reduce the redness in her cheeks; and if she had been wearing make-up, a proficient hand with what products she kept close. Like a wilted flower she brought the color back into her body, rising to shine like a Morning Poppy being touched by the sun. 

“Sor--”

His hand rose again to stop her with a forward palm. “Please, do not apologize, there is no need.”

“Right ,sorry -- oh, fuck.” A true laugh shook her shoulders, squeezing out the last drops of tears as she looked at his crossed arms and raised brow. She continued to wipe at her damp eyes and he stood with a grunt.

“There is still time before the last few buses arrive. Would you like to talk some more?” 

“Yeah, I wanna tell you about  _Giselle_.”

He should have asked if she wanted to watch something on television instead, because she did more than talk about her upcoming performances. Not a sentence into the story did she say when mention of Riley would follow. She did her best to explain in layman’s terms (with a sprinkle of what she knew was ‘science-y’ talk) what each dance called for so he could understand, but in turn she explained what her partners would do if he was involved -- which was honestly quite a lot. Either Riley or Antone, both with different tones as she spoke, and only one causing his heart to clench. He did not stop her though, enraptured by her glowing face talking a mile a minute while she leaned against his arm and used her hands to talk. Despite the ache in his heart, he lovingly gazed at her once soaked face, barely able to see the remnants of dark trails with his keen eyes. His mind on the other hand seemed to wander, mesmerized in the way she raved about her ‘ _ Hilarion’ _ . Did she talk about him in the same manner to perhaps April and Casey? Maybe the turtles? He did his own best to not be obvious in his affection that were more than friendly for her when speaking to anyone, so possibly she did the same if she was as smitten with him as he was with her. It would definitely be because of their friendship, able to happily be close enough to be roommates. Perchance she talked lovingly about him in the careful tongue she promised kept his existence safe to her friends above, whether in friendly ways or romantic ones.

Ultimately the hour was late, but not enough to worry either of them when she left. With pepper-spray secure in her duffel bag, and her phone in hand ready to call for help, they parted ways with the hug he had longed for, made sweeter when she whispered a thank you for calming her down. Once her trot out was beyond his hearing capabilities, Leatherhead stood there for a few more minutes with only a turn around to look over his home. Empty and silent, left dim with only him filling the space. He made his way to the bucket of water and Epsom salt, taking it to the sink to dump out, then leaving the plastic bin under the cabinet. Finally he crawled into bed, moving the salvaged curtains made into a make-shift canopy closed. Hardly covered from the quilts, and curled on his side, he was lulled not into a deep sleep, but rather a state between wakefulness and rest. It was there she awaited him, before his eyes, underneath his hulking form with only her favored blanket over her lithe form. Her skin glistened with sweat in what felt like a furnace all around -- perhaps the underworld itself with the way she seemed to tempt him. Her entire body writhed, begging for more than a simple caress as thighs squeezed together and her breath came in ragged puffs. Green engulfed her irises, as if reflecting his glistening scales melting from the heat. She looked pained, gazing deep into his horrified eyes that were afraid of what true suffering he could inflict on her if he fell prey to her whimpering. The tiny voice in the back of his head begged him to open his eyes to see beyond the lies his mind had conjured, yet he could not. Not when her bare arms raised with needy hands beckoning him to consume her, and tears freely poured down her soft cheeks. At last, she spoke, and he broke:  _ “Please ...I want you.” _

Or he broke as much as he could with his mind plunging into self-deprecation. He lowered his face dangerously close to her, feeling every caress of breath from her pouty, sweet lips. Her words from earlier flowed through his mind, bringing forth the other times she would gush lovingly about people above in ways he wished she would for him. Pitifully he lamented that it was not him she desired, but those she was better suited with. Those who could hold her without fear of tearing flesh and leaving scars behind.  _ “You do not want me, not as I am.” _ He strained to say as his body shook in sobs. She did not stop though, fingertips brushing over his shoulder and sliding down the side of his head -- teetering over the rows of sharp ivories that protruded over his maw, Every denial of her needing him was met with fierce rebuttals whispered over his flesh like flames licking at his aching heart. Slowly a knee pressed over his stomach, stretching over to hook over his side as best it could. More and more flesh revealed itself, the blanket falling from her clenching body; a sunny shade shining in heated desire as she brought him lower and lower, and herself higher and higher. No beat was missed, her reassurance becoming believable with every wanton moan. His mind may have told him otherwise with a weakening voice, but his body was willing and ready for more. A large hand traveled over the covered shape of her breast, painfully making a descent towards her needy core where the quilt bunched up the tightest. 

At last, he shattered, and  _ hard _ . The ache in his body shot like lightning through him, touched by her sultry pleas, sent ablaze by her wandering hands pressing with all their might near his abdomen -- as close as he could imagine his heavy erection was. With one final sigh he asked once more:  _ “Only me?” _ to which she replied with a grin he could not see, but hear:  _ “Yes, only you.” _ And Leatherhead laid his maw beside her ear so he could hear her delighted laughter as his hand reached the bundled cloth. His fingers felt over the creamy skin of her naked thigh, up and down her leg that flexed involuntarily in anticipation. With one turn of his wrist he found her hot core, but did not linger for more than a loving brush before he moved the blanket up and away to accommodate his size. Her arms wrapped around what they could of his neck, and he descended upon her, pupils like razors as he took her body as his own. Her back arched up into him, and she erupted into dizzying laughter as she clenched all around him.

His gasp echoed throughout the lair, bouncing off the concrete walls and back into his ears that haunted him. He was in his bed, and no one was there with him. He was alone, sweaty, and reeked of sexual delight caused from fake sensations that still ghosted over his body. The scene had been so lucid, so vivid, he could practically taste her skin on his tongue, saw the gleam of sweat over her bony clavicle as she squirmed for him and only him, for his touch and love to ease her torment away. It seemed by relieving her, he had inflicted it on himself, for now he hurt all over despite the release of tension.Tearing away his covers, Leatherhead moved aside the curtains and made a beeline out of the home. He was still scorching, itching under his scales to rid himself of the dried perspiration; he’d have to wash the sheets and quilts. That was the worst part too: he had promised to never do that in their bed. Where she lounged some nights in long pajamas, reading books and watching videos like any other person. Where she laid beside him and talked long into the night when she did not plan to wake early. He was left feeling the most disgusted he had ever been, slinking away from his wicked deed like a coward. Turning his senses to his surroundings, he found no one else awake or walking the sewers. No Leonardo, no Raphael, no Donatello, and definitely no Michelangelo hopped up on caffeine. Only him and the rushing sound of water down pipes and in pools. 

Here he found solace in a large body of water, purified and ready to fall into the ocean; and if he fell alongside it, there was no harm in that. The Alligator-Crocodile mutant (how the two cross mutated, he could not say) dove straight in with perfect form, splitting the water like butter as he propelled as he deeply as possible. Crisp and cool, like a good slap to the face, Leatherhead slowly came to a halt and stretched out. All the euphoric heat left him, leaving only the normal body temperature best suited for a creature of his making. Being held in the water’s shape was akin to a liquid bed, drifting him in anyway the moment called for. He did not dare close his eyes, less he once again be sent into another fantasy and sully his watery sanctuary. Instead he twirled around in his own dance, allowing his mind to be free of all the worries he had accumulated. 

Perhaps he too would be purified, but that was just laughable thinking.

* * *

“Have you confessed your undying love to that guy yet?” Her friend’s sickly sweet voice brought her out of the focus warming up had put her in.

With a tired glare from the corner of her eyes, she replied with snark: “No, Jazmyne, I did not.” And continued to hold her leg parallel to her head.

“What, is he like a Mr. Darcy or something? ”

“He’s nothing like that asshole.” She let her foot descend to the floor, then quickly went on the pointe of her shoes. 

Jazmyne stayed in her perfect splits on the polished floor, and leaned over to lay her cheeks in balanced hands. “Then you think he’s out of your league?”

“No, it’s not like that, it’s just...he and I just….Why the fuck do you care so much?” The obvious answer was  _ ‘because I’m your best friend’ _ , but that was given neither of needed to say.

“Because I know you think about him a lot, and that he’s probably the reason you bought that monster sized cock.”

Were it not for the bar built in front of the large mirrors, she would have jumped and fallen over flat on her face. Anywhere else Jazmyne’s blunt words would have been laughable, but in the studio where their peers could possibly hear, they were crude and humiliating. Now she was left sweaty from flushing so hard, and sending a wide-eyed death stare down towards the other woman grinning like a child. With a turn so they would be face to face, she joined her friend in a splits, close enough that there was no need to whisper so low.

“Shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up,  _ shut the fuck up _ .” She bowed her head between two stiff hands with palms flat on the ground. Before she could say anymore, Jazmyne spoke again, but softer this time.

“So, is he really that big? Does he keep it trimmed?”

“I’ve...I’ve never seen it…” How the hell could she when the mutation had obviously taken the path of modesty; honestly, it reminded her of the story of Adam and Eve, but instead of a forbidden fruit, it was forbidden mutagen not meant to be used by creatures on Earth.

“Then why the hell buy the giant toy? Is there any indication he  _ is  _ well-endowed?”

“...Well...he’s big in every other way. Like, somewhere over six-feet tall and very...wide….”

“Pro-wrestler wide?” Jazmyne raised a brow.

“I hate this, I hate you, I don’t know.”

“ Ok then, I’ll let you off this time. how’s the progress coming along with it anyways? Is it satisfying that itch?”

“Yeah, it’s coming along...or should I say,  _ I’m  _ coming along.” The conversation wasn’t all that bad honestly, just out of the blue in the most worst place. They giggled together, silent and mischievously as the other dancers shot them curious looks. Tall, limber ballerinas in their workout pants, leotards, and pointe shoes preparing for another hour of intense rehearsing. 

Their next performance was weeks away, but  _ Giselle _ was no easy ballet. Common as it was, and though many of them had performed it before, there was no room for failure and practice made perfect. She was especially in need to rehearse with her titular role of Giselle -- one of her many characters with long solos. Exciting and a breathe of fresh air from her group dancing -- though she loved the latter, having the stage to herself was a guilty pleasure as someone who liked to stay a coryphée amongst the corps de ballet so she could keep her shoulders free of responsibility a principal dancer had.

She’d need all her energy and focus, which also meant more time in the studio and less in bed splitting herself in half -- or as far as she could at that point.

“Let’s get dinner together so we can talk more.” Jazmyne sat upright.

“My place, take-out?”

“Yeah, maybe you can show me how far you are on Mr. monster”

And she playfully socked her friend in the shoulder and scoffed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've lost control how many chapters there will be lmao


	3. Pity me, I need you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A name changed has a occurred and taken place, please refer back to chapter 2 to see it if you were here before that happened. If not, enjoy!

  


Absently she rubbed a finger over the stickers littering the underside of her water bottle. They glistened under the lights, wet from her desperate chugging of water after falling on her bottom. So engrossed in tracing the white outlines of cutely drawn succulents, stars, and logos, she almost missed Riley ending his own practice -- having gone an extra twenty minutes after she had called it quits for the day. His long arms and legs tightening with a simple outward pirouette before stopping on a sweep of his arched foot. Keeping the position he flexed his soles up and down, like he could not decide whether or not it was good form -- a habit they shared.

“That last one was perfect.” She leaned back on the mirror-wall with both hands hanging between her thighs.

He took a deep breath and finally relaxed his body. “Yeah, you’re right.” And he joined her on the floor, close enough that their hips touched. 

“Mind if I get some of your water? Forgot my own this morning.” He reached a hand out.

“Mhm, yeah.” And she handed him the bottle with a weak grip. His eyes were on her, but her own were staring across the dance floor at their reflections in the opposite mirror. She did not acknowledge her own expression, looking beyond the furrowed brows and stern frown. Perhaps it was the exhaustion from their four hour rehearsal or maybe the effects of stress from the performance around the corner, either way she went limp while thoughts swirled around her mind. Far from the studio on one of Brooklyn’s many noisy streets, beneath the billowing manholes where waste flowed into the sewers. That was where her thoughts were -- lost in one of the many mazes of tunnels.

“Hey….” Riley gave her a gentle nudge of his shoulder, the bottle in both hands on his lap by then.

She sighed through her nose then hummed: “Hmm?”

“You kinda faded out.”

“Oh...Yeah...just thinking and stuff.” Her shoulders shrugged.

“‘Bout what?” 

Letting her head fall against the glass, she turned it to face her dance partner. Riley was a handsome guy, no doubt about it. With raven hair he kept short to keep out of his eyes during performances, a sharp jaw that lead to a soft chin, and striking blue eyes under thick brows. If his face didn’t reel in a person, it was definitely his large frame, tall height, and muscles that were outlined under his clothes; she had every reason to believe he _purposely_ bought a size too small for that exact reason. They had danced side by side since she first came to the studio almost two years ago, finding a similar rhythm in the way they lifted their bodies. A power duo, but never did they get many chances to dance together when he was a principal member and she kept to the background.

She had no reason to distrust him or keep him from something so obvious. They had never discussed it before ( she thought it rude at first), but now she could not stop herself from blurting out. “I'm ...I'm so sick of Anton, dude.”

“Same though.” He nodded to her relief.

“He dances so well when he wants to, but out of the public eye he’s so fucking annoying.” She scoffed with a roll of her eyes and shake of her head. When she saw he was doing similar, her whole body began to further relax.

“He kept acting stupid when we practiced the other day. I nearly socked him.” 

“You should see him with the other guys; when it’s just us, he acts like he’s still in highschool.”

“Do the others like him?”

“Like, barely a handful, the rest of us make a joke out of him when we can. Usually we all just snicker behind his back.”

She grinned. “God, I hate that, but I’d do the same if I weren’t so busy focusing.”

The only person she gave any spare attention to was Jazmyne, but even then that was primarily when they took a break together; usually off doing extra stretches or rearranging their outfits while the others continued. She scarcely gave Riley a glance even when he was beside her, and when she did catch his eye and smile, she merely smiled back. They hardly went out together too -- maybe that was why she was unaware of his own dislike of Anton. He was usually having lunch with the male dancers, being seen as their leader. She could see why, he was charismatic and looked every bit the part of boss.

“ Very immature, yeah, but that guy is three times worse.” Riley handed her the bottle back.

Reaching a hand, she laid it palm down so they both were holding the yellow container. “Pretty sure I graduated highschool years ago, yet it still feels the same..”

“Don’t you listen to Bowling For Soup? Highschool never ends.” They chuckled together.

“Well, at least I’m mature enough not to start a fight.” She pulled her drink away and tossed the large container between both hands; well spent forty-bucks in her opinion. 

“You were a brawler back in the day?” 

“Not as much as I could have been. I was dancing most of the time, but I got in enough fights to ride backseat in the Principal’s golf-cart like a queen.” 

He chuckled as though he could not believe all five-foot three-inches of her could cause a commotion. She didn’t blame him, the majority of people underestimated her short stature and scrawny limbs. Ridiculous when it should have obvious they were also quite toned, but no one sized her dancer body up, only seeing the initial image of a small girl with a resting bitch-face that begged for a challenge. They hardly expected a fiery exchange of blows, hair pulling, and scratches alongside strings of foul Spanish.

“To be honest, you kind of scared me when we first met.”

Smugly she narrowed her eyes. “You’ve told me that once or twice before.”

“If you get in a fight with Anton I wanna be there. I’ll defend your alibi.” He nudged her shoulder once more.

“Thanks, but that ain’t gonna happen anytime soon. I’m not trying to get into trouble, I’m here to dance.”

“Well,” Riley wiggled his shoulders gently, pursing his lips in a very cute way that had her laughing. “You know you can always throw me a DM or call if things get too upsetting. I may not have a lot of good tips or advice, but I do have a good ear.” 

Instantly she felt a burst of warmth spread through her chest at the invitation. It was not like she needed an outright offer to message him about her woes, nor did she lack a support system to reach out herself. Simply put: she _craved_ things like it. Friendly gestures that made her feel loved and cared for; the first time Jazmyne had excitedly invited her out for lunch, she nearly burst into tears. She was hardly like this back in California, in fact she was the opposite. Probably because she had her family and longtime companions there who long ago had covered her in a security blanket of acceptance. New York was still so new, and her friendships barely on firm legs. If anything, her topside social life was more shaky than what she cherished below with the turtles and Leatherhead….. That was her support: the mutated gator-croc who she would message on a daily basis. Who had cradled her face in his large palm not long ago as though she were the most important treasure in the world -- perhaps _his_ world? He too lacked words of advice on few occasions, yet telling him her troubles was the most therapeutic down time since her last in person conversation with her father. She hoped her own listening was something similar for him, or was _every_ time he did share the demons lurking within.

When Riley brought her back to reality once more, she realized her bottom lip was mercilessly being chewed on and her gaze had fallen from his.

“Unless that's too personal, then I understand co--”

She hastily spoke up. “No, no, it’s totally cool. I really appreciate the offer.” Truly she did.

Before Riley could speak up again, an alarm went off in her duffel. With a jump, she scrambled to her feet and quickly walked towards it. One glance at her phone and she shoved it back in, then grabbed the strap of her bag. “Sorry, but I gotta go. Meeting up with some friends and I’m providing the pizza.” 

“Oh, thats cool.” Riley stood and dusted off his tights. “Maybe you, me, and Jazz can get lunch later this week?”

Duffel secured across her torso, she began to pull her hair up in a renewed tight bun. “Hell yeah, we should grab some ramen. Been craving it for the past month.” She bounced on the soles of her pointe shoes. Used and beyond their usage, there was no harm in scurrying to the nearest bus in them, or even traversing the sewers. They would be thrown out and replaced by tonight.

“Sounds like a plan, catch you later.”

“Text ya later!”

* * *

Though She had spent four hours rehearsing, she still joined the turtles in a vigorous session of Yoga. Rolling out her own mat from her duffel, she lined up with three other mats in front of Leonardo. He lead them into each position with little word besides instruction to breathe when he thought they needed reminding. This was one of the few exercises she could join them in without becoming lost, not interested in anything inclined to martial arts specifically. Her body contorted in sync with the four brothers as though she had learned alongside them since forever -- a fifth sibling amongst their ranks. Quite the sight, she thought, sparing a glance over her companions. Green glowing under the artificial lights, the sound of gentle water in the silent background. She caught Leonardo’s eyes at one point, then he spoke above the lair’s radio system.

“Got your second wind today, huh?” 

“Somehow, maybe the pizzas woke me up.” She sat up on her knees. Not far off were said meals, only one box open with a slice missing as the rest awaited claim.

“Glad to see you pushing your limits,” He began the next position -- a simple stretch of legs and touch of toes to begin winding them down. “You’re just as bad as me in training regime.”

She scrunched up her nose in a smile. “A compliment from the boss turtle? I’m honored.”

If that were true, she happily held the comparison to her heart. The others may have thought it a tad extreme (Mikey and Raph would never stop teasing the blue clad turtle over his extra hours in the night), but not her. No, when it was a passion, it was a rush to practice and see improvement. The blisters and calluses on her feet were like the scars on their shells -- like the leather-hard skin of Leo’s hands from holding his blades for so long and tight. She could relate to their dedication, having trained since childhood as well. She admired all four of them...but perhaps she favored Leo just a smidgen more.

“Are we done yet?” Mikey groaned, noticeably straining to keep touching his toes. A shake of her head and a roll of her eyes, and she looked up to the eldest brother with a raised brow.

Leonardo nodded. “Yes, we can move on.”

Mikey groaned louder, falling onto his side. In her opinion, he looked like a green sack, a childish one at that, ready to start throwing a tantrum. He didn’t though, and she knew it was Mikey being Mikey -- dramatic. She didn’t blame him, if anything she would have joined him if she were not already fired up to keep practicing. If she was an intense worker like Leo, then she was also a major dork like Mikey. And if she was like those two, she could not forget Raph with his mean face. 

The red brother stood, heading to the radio in long strides. He began to press buttons before grabbing a small device hooked into what she could only call an aux cord. Upon further observation the small item turned out to be an Ipod with no external alterations, but she knew better than to believe it normal. It was new to her, because the last few times she had been over the four turtles had been flicking through the crates of CD’s and records surrounding the sound system.

“When’d you guys find an Ipod?” She crouched to roll up her mat. 

Mikey began kicking his own closed. “Casey found it on the bus. Took it to the lost and found, but no one claimed it. His buddy at the bus station let him keep it.”

“Don did his science magic and unlocked it, hooked it to our wi-fi. Even got us music streaming apps _illegally_.” Raph chuckled as he ran his thumb over the glass screen. Finally he settled on a playlist and set the Ipod down.

She knew the music was not their usual training jams, signifying she would be joining one of them now. Looking over all four turtles, she was met with Raph approaching her and stretching out both hands. She should have known, he was her usual partner in footwork practice, and Leonardo was a close second; Donnie never seemed interested, and Mikey was not fond of the routine she personally assisted in creating. The orange brother was still immature in that way, but Raph rose above it. Delicately four fingers laid in three large ones -- thumbs pressing where the green digits cupped her own. They began slow and steady, warming up as one another became accustomed to the height difference. Getting into the groove of their motions was shaky at the start -- two-heads of horizontal and vertical distance, and one lithe versus clunky physiques being obstacles, Reaching a bodily agreement absently came over them, quick to lift their feet and twirl with one another. In every way it was a dance between two people, a jig inspired by the medieval era of knights and tied together with martial arts. Facing one another, side by side, hand in hand, they were quick while changing movements. A jolt forward then back, balanced in their separate styles, a circle around one another without leaving eye contact. Raphael was like lightning, but heavy in his steps, while she was fluid, too slow though in each transition. A training twice as difficult than what Riley could provide; he was passionate, but lacked the ferocity the turtles brought.

Behind their backs (mainly her’s) Mikey snickered, mimicking stances and throwing his body around in stereotypical poses ballet. All of it was in hopes Raph would lose his cool and mess up; she recognized the brotherly teasing. Unfortunately for Michaelangelo, his brother was above having his buttons pushed to the point of seeing red in the heat of a moment, yet just as dangerously for Michaelangelo Raphael’s sadistic smirk was telltale of the hurt he would pound into the younger brother later. When she caught sight of him over Raph’s shoulder -- mid Grande Battement to the back -- she set a jaded look toward the orange-clad brother; a mixture of her resting bitch face and a challenging narrow of eyes. He sheepishly grinned, flushing a darker green, and ceased for the better. If Raph didn’t get in his brother’s face, _she_ surely would -- not one to take jabs at her career kindly. Mikey was a hypocrite anyways. Just because he didn’t join them in footwork, did not mean he avoided _all_ of what she did with them involving her ballet flavor. If anything it was _him_ who insisted he join her in their own special activity.

Fed up with his baby brother, Raph brought them to a halt. “Thanks for the workout out, happy feet.”

Sliding her hands from his, she swiped the back of a one over her sweaty forehead. “Anytime, twinkle toes.” 

As he went back to change the music (a more common playlist of 90s Hip Hop and R&B), she turned to Mikey, waiting patiently by the sofa. 

“ _Finally,_ I thought you two were gonna dance the night away.” 

“Shut up and grab me a cola, would you.” She passed by him, but not without socking him in the nearest shoulder. That definitely hurt if his hiss and rubbing of the spot said anything. 

Tiredly she dragged her duffel to the main part of the lair and dumped it’s contents on the floor: a spare set of casual clothes, deodorant, perfume, her plastic water-bottle covered in stickers, a bottle of aspirin gel tablets, icy-hot patches, other pain-soothing items, toe guards, a pair of light sneakers, phone charger, wireless earbuds, a dozen miscellaneous sewing items, and a pile of pointe shoes that were new and without ribbons or breaking in. 

Together they sat on the floor in front of the many monitors and televisions the family owned. Lazily she separated what they needed from what they didn’t and put the latter stuff (clothes, sneakers, bottle, hygiene products, and what not) back into her bag, then they sought out what they needed from what was left.

“Do you wanna carve off the sides this time?” Mikey grabbed one of two box-cutters -- cheap and pink colored that she had bought at a cheap Asian store in the mall.

“Maybe three if it ain’t too much trouble. Still unsure if I like that or not.” She organized each pair of pointe shoes in two short, neat rows in reachable distance. 

“You’d think by now you’d know if you liked it.” 

“Yeah, but it's just...weird. Like adding a new topping to pizza.”

“All toppings are good though.”

She scrunched up her face. “No way in hell do I like sausage on mine.”

“You’re taste buds are still sync to California frequency. You hardly even eat Pizza too!” The turtle, surveying his pile of elastic ribbons, said in a mocking tone.

She rolled her eyes for the second time that day, not saying anything else on the topic since she was not a pizza connoisseur like her friend was. There was a few minutes of silence as they worked in tandem, taking a shoe in hand and snapping it in half until there was a satisfying crack from the box within it. By now Mikey knew when the bend was just right, holding the loosened pink item up and inspecting it with earnesty. They were not far into their work when Donatello exited his lab, having cooped himself up the moment their stretches had finished. She did not question him when he took sanctuary there, it usually was with a familiar glint in his eye she knew all too well. He too shared a deep passion she and Leo possessed, but the subject of science was not one she could properly relate to -- fair since he too could not find excitement in dancing like she did. There was a wall between them since they lacked overlapping quirks and styles, unlike her and the other three who shared many qualities. With that in mind, that could have meant her close bond to Leatherhead they shared should have been strained as well ...yet there was no barrier between them. They talked for hours about anything and everything, they could debate issues to near loud volumes and it not hurt their relationship. He was the most interesting and delightful person she knew. It was different in ways that could not be described -- besides, of course, her romantic and sexual attraction, but those had come long after they created such a strong bond. 

She watched Donatello stare at his communicator in hand, striding absently across the lair to the exit.

“I’ll be back, don’t burn the place down while Im out.” To which his brothers shooed him away for. 

Reaching for her can of cola, she smiled: he was absolutely cute and endearing in the end. She really did love Donnie and his nerdy self despite it all.

* * *

At one point, Leatherhead had not only resigned himself to making no effort in tolerating humans, but also in keeping relations with the turtles -- _especially_ Donatello. A sad chapter in his life, plagued by malice and prejudice from the suffering under Bishop’s, The Shredder’s, and to some small extent, Stockman’s hands. This was not his reason for keeping a distance from Donatello though, that was entirely caused by _both_ their hands. There had been a fight, not between friends, but rather lovers, for they had been committed for a while before the explosive ending came. Not together for merely being the only options for one another (mutant and nearby), they were similar where it mattered, creating a meaningful path towards a relationship. Scavenging the trash became akin to dates, intellectual jargon over drinks in their lairs were bonding times, collaborations in creations and research were like monuments to their love. For awhile Leatherhead was secure in where he belonged, right there in the sewers with his boyfriend and their makeshift family. Then Bishop's scars, deep and taunting, began to worsen, and hatred laid like poison in his veins, killing everything he had worked so hard for. He could not look to April and Casey with the same compassion he once had. He became a recluse in his home, hardly keeping contact with even his partner, and suddenly the other three turtles began eyeing him like any good brother would for their sibling's safety and welfare. Leatherhead had raised red flags with his apathetic demeanor, ignored the purple turtle at lengths which must have made him severely suffer -- the last thing the croc had wanted. He had become cold and not worthy in the eyes of his friends for their middle brother, and he did little to prove them otherwise as he ignored them twice as much.

Donnie had tried to talk things out, ultimately only proving he lacked what Leatherhead needed. Too technical and stiff in his attempts to outstretch a hand towards the bigger mutant’s demons, he fumbled. Donatello was honest, but could not replicate the tenderness of his father’s wisdom and heart-to-heart conversations. To this day neither of them could understand why none of his words reached Leatherhead’s heart, but they knew now it was just not meant to be. Frustrated, annoyed, hurt, Leatherhead could only demand the turtle leave, but he was still not kind nor in control. He roared, he slammed a fist onto the counter, did his best to keep from hurting his dearest friend. There was no need to confirm with one another afterwards, they were broken up and from then on he was alone. Not _utterly_ when there was always a shell-shaped shadow appearing once and while, as though to make sure he was still breathing, but enough that he had gone weeks without saying a word, not even to himself. 

Finally he realized he would not survive a life of solitude like he had been after being stranded on Earth. He apologized to them all, coming to terms that he was not coping healthily and now needing time to readjust back into his better-self. Perhaps that would have taken months, even years, but then _she_ appeared. Lost and alone just like he, in need of a friend to support her in a new environment. It was half the time any of them had estimated would be needed to open up again (a year opposed to possibly the whole two), and slowly it became far more than what any of them thought was called for (one year to heal, another to develop so much more between them and realize it). Now he was here, craving what he had once cherished with Donatello, desiring with an entirely new intensity that worried him. Even after all his time, Leatherhead had yet to confide in the purple-clad turtle; forgive and move forward they had agreed on, yet he still could not trust the turtle like he once had. If their breakup taught him anything, it was that there was something keeping them from truly connecting. Every time he analysed possible variables as answers, the one that stood out was a very likely change in Donatello himself that came on at such a horrible time. They both underwent change in themselves on levels neither was aware could happen, but Leatherhead’s was loud, while Donatello’s was silent.

“Let’s head to my lab, my computer has my extra notes.” Donatello’s voice pulled him from the memories; he was arms crossed, leaning against a lab table while Leatherhead’s eyes stared at his nest of mattresses. 

Donnie looked between the area, then to his friend. “You cleaned the sheets recently Something happen?” He turned back to his notebook, shoving in the loose papers and shutting it closed in one hand. It was well known when the sheets were cleaned in the bigger mutant’s lair, the smell of scraped up detergent filling the majority of the home right after. Not only that, but there was an ‘every other day’ rule of wash he followed, so lost in his work that cleaning up tended to be left to such a routine. Today happened to not be one of those days usual wash days; when you knew someone for so long and closely, you happen to know and remember this kind of stuff. 

“No...yes…” A large hand rose to scratch behind the croc’s hand. “It’s...complicated.” 

“If you, uhh ...ruined the sheets after a nightmare, there’s no sh--”

“ _No._ ” He all but snarled, annoyed with the way the turtle tried to comfort him. Before, it would have brought him just that -- to be cared about by his friend -- but now it only got on his nerves. Well meaning, perhaps hoping in trying to reconnect like once before, Donnie was sadly met with the same wall from back then. 

“Sorry,” His friend caressed the notebook. “I’m really trying, LH. I’ve noticed new changes in your moods.”

Was he that obvious? Hesitantly he spoke: “...Like what?”

“Well, sudden shifts from bliss to somber, as though there is something heavy on your mind.” 

With a great sigh, he conceded. “You may be right.” The annoyance had faded and did not seem to be rising again -- perhaps this would be a breakthrough.

“I would be honored to listen to your troubles. I’ve wanted to help for awhile now, but I don’t want to intrude, particularly since we’re still…” Two three-fingered hands rolled around one another, searching for a way to continue the sentence.

Might as well put the poor turtle out of his awkward misery. “To be frank, I’ve been...preoccupied...with my more ‘ _carnal’_ urges.” He raised both hands to form air-quotes. Embarrassing to say the least, and somehow Donatello made is even more so, for he stared upwards to meet the gator’s gaze with a searching expression.

After a few seconds, the turtle spoke, but in a carefree tone that matched his lopsided grin. “I mean, I understand, what mutant in the sewers doesn’t struggle with that.” He chuckled, and Leatherhead happily did the same -- satisfied that he was not growing angry at the subtle teasing.

“Still, that doesn’t seem to be _the_ reason for these sudden and loud mood shifts. There must be something more.”

“Yes, there is, but let us discuss this in your lair instead. I feel ashamed discussing it here, where those urges have gotten the best of me.”

Together they strolled the few minutes to the neighboring lair in silence: Donatello eager to finally help and Leatherhead pondering how best to explain his dilemma. Not a few feet away from the entrance and he already caught whiff of sweet vanilla, lulling his mind into a relaxed state. Blindly he took a large inhale, finding there was also the musky tang of salt -- telling of a hard day’s worth of work. She was there, and naturally he felt excited, awaiting to see her face. Lost in the bliss, when he caught Donatello’s curious stare, Leatherhead was hit with reality: there would be an audience, his friend already knew the basis of the situation, and she did not know he was arriving. With every iron defense he could muster in such short notice and under a scrutinizing eye, the mutant tamed the foolish smile on his maw and continued to walk with professional purpose; still, his mind began to wander as always when she was filling it, creating possible situations of what their reunion would bring. The most craved scenario was her jumping into his arms, thrilled to see him, possibly so overwhelmed with love and glee she would caress the side of his face and bring him down for a peck -- a heated kiss -- despite the extra gazes on them….he at least thought a hug may be received, to which he would happy squeeze her back and bury his nose as craftily he could into her dark, wavy locks.

At last they entered the turtles’ lair, met with the speakers blaring music; Leonardo laying on his stomach near the pond of sewer water with a book open wide; Raphael skateboarding around their makeshift skate-park, doing impressive tricks; and last but not least, Michaelangelo cozied up beside the very woman that plagued Leatherhead’s fantasies. The duo were cute together, squeezed side to side as they huddled over her cellphone, without a doubt watching whatever newest funny video they could find. They shared goofy grins, not holding back in their chortling and jokes. The multiple screens washed them over with blue highlights, creating an illusion that the two adults were younger than the truth (even more so young in Mikey’s respect as he was still early in his twenties unlike her who was midways in); if one of them were not a mutant, the picture could easily be mistaken as college students goofing off, and that settled like lead in Leatherhead’s gut. He could never join that visual with them -- _with her_ \-- for he was not as carefree, in touch with society like they were.

At once all three turtles greeted him (Michaelangelo looking up the moment he and Donatello entered), and finally her head lifted as well. Her eyes met his, at first blank, perhaps lost in what was happening, then quickly softened. The corners crinkled as she grinned in a way he knew she reserved solely for him -- tender, elated, prepared to launch herself at him -- and that only made his stomach turn. She was not that young as she usually acted, shy of being twenty-seven (the beginning of her late-twenties), yet she was as much an extrovert as the orange-clad turtle. Friends all around who she laughed with, went out late into the night with, always ready to have fun and crack jokes with. Even when she was silent, troubled with anxieties of the future, she was the opposite of him. He who still lived like a hermit, haunted by the possibility that he may lose himself to bouts of rage, filled with detest for people (so many people) being too close for comfort. They could share the easy moments of warmth where they stayed in to watch a movie, read books on the sofa, co-exist like an old couple without the excitement of going out, but the dark parts of him accused him of keeping her prisoner -- chained to him underground and away from the sun she held within herself. The logical and rational part of him denied those silly thoughts -- she always chose to drop down into the dark sewers and sought him out without him saying word -- yet the demons within clawed away. She was vastly different from him, deserving to live above where the light shone and made her glow, and he deserved to live below, where the shadows kept him hidden from pain and he restrained him from causing anyone problems.

She did not jump in his arms as he had dreamed, instead she raised a hand up to her stomach, enthusiastically to waving it at him -- no less delighted to see him as she had been when they met gazes. He smiled back, believing it convincing enough to be merry as he was before when her sweet scent had soothed him. Quickly he turned away and sought refuge in Donatello’s lab, reluctant to see her reaction in case it would fuel his self-loathing. There was no door to this part of the lair, there were none at all save for the restroom, but it was far and filled enough with thick inventions that sound carried less from it.

He hoped Donatello had not caught on, but the turtle was, as always, far more keen in his observations; he had said it many times before, the purple-clad turtle was superior in intellect, and there were no hard feelings in admitting and accepting that. 

“Does our ballerina have anything to do with the _deeper_ reason behind your woes?” The turtle casually dropped his notebook on the nearest, cluttered, desk.

Preferring to lay his eyes elsewhere, Leatherhead looked over the strewn papers on the same slab of metal, using a hand to carefully see one piece of scribbles from under a dozen more. “Yes…” Was all he said, bringing forth a stillness Buttons blinked, consoles hummed, screens glared with columns of data. There was no clock in the room, yet a ticking noise best in his entire being, taunting him for being so cowardly.

and then, finally:

“I think of _her_ constantly, but I do not wish to ruin what we have.” And he revealed his forlorn expression to his friend. His once lover and most trusted companion; if he could turn back time, the croc-gator mutant would have stopped himself from outright exploding in anger during their fight, fixing the bad ending that left them in relationship limbo. He would not stop their breakup though, horrified at the prospect that the change of timeline would keep him from meeting _her_. At least that way he would have come to Don for help far sooner.

“I love her, yet I know it would not be fair to her. Even if she did feel the same and accepted me, I would only hold her back from a life full of luxuries the world above can provide.” 

Donatello looked hurt, as though the larger mutant’s woes had personally attacked him. “LH, that's ridiculous, you can offer just as much if not more!”

“Be realistic Donatello, we are mutants who may only ever be seen when horrifying costumes are welcomed. Even then, I am twice as terrifying, unable to join you in that.I can not join her in public, I can not give her even the simplest of gifts. No visiting her favorite shops, favorite restaurants, treating her to her guilty pleasures.” He curled his fist, uncaring that he crumpled more than one paper in its grasp. “She provides me with all those, bringing me tea I can not buy myself, treating me to meals from restaurants I can never enter.”

Donatello reached hand closer, cautious as he laid it on his friend’s wrist. “Leatherhead….”

“She would never be truly happy with me. She deserves someone who she can show off to her family, to the rest of society. Not a hate-filled monster like me.” He released the papers, broad shoulders slumping forward.

“Listen --”

“No, no more -- please.” He cut off the turtle’s words. “I’ve come to terms with this, and it only hurts me every time I think about it. Please...let’s continue with our project.”

And for a tense moment Donatello stared. The gears in his head no doubt deciding on what to do, and in the end showing he understood, turning to his computer to bring up an isometric layout. They worked in tandem, words following after one another as though the thought had entered both their minds. Synced so well that they fit in the room meant for maybe two mutant turtles -- working out for one turtle and a croc who was close to three times his size. Where Donatello reached for a pen, Leatherhead crossed over like a puzzle piece to grab something else. Scientific bliss with results that satisfied them both with additions to their numbers. For a wonderful time where the minutes ticked by without a care, Leatherhead felt like they were back when they had first began working together. When each new discovery of similarity was refreshing and compelling after so many years of lacking an equal in intellect (that same feeling doubled when he had met April O'Neil as well, finding two kindred souls since being left on Earth). 

That was why Donatello’s next words left him so shocked. “You know, when we were together, you provided a lot. Not just in a material sense, but emotional too. In the end, it was that which fulfilled me the most: your support and love.”

That was different, he wanted to counter. They were both mutants, accustomed to their solitary life in the shadows and without all the leisure of life under the sun. He didn’t though, because somewhere inside he desperately wanted to cling to his friend’s words. Believe that despite everything, _he could_ be enough for her somehow.”

“Laughing and sharing things I could never with my own brothers, that was what made our days together so rich. I wouldn’t trade those memories for anything in the world.” The turtle worked as he spoke in hushed tones, a fond smile on his thin lips. 

He looked up with an expression Leatherhead could only compare to the human's in the other room own -- the one she would turn only to him with. “There is so much more than what you hear in songs, see on television, and read in books to being with the one you love. I wish you would realize that -- realize that _she_ knows that.” Donatello shook his head. “Me and her, we tend to be awkward when alone, but we always enjoy each other’s company. We’ve had great conversations where we’ve learned so much about one another. With all that in mind, I can tell you this: she may just feel the same.”

“...Donatello --”

“Listen, I’m not saying I’m a hundred-percent sure, but the way she talks about you ...I get so damn jealous, I wish she’d talk about me with that look in her eye -- that caring voice.” He chuckled. 

Leatherhead stared wide-eyed, taken aback by the turtle’s little speech. His mind reeled, conflicted between believing in such admissions or dismissing them as ramblings from his dearest friend. Either way they brought all his insecurities to the front of his mind, hoping she talked as Donatello claimed she did; was the universe telling him something through the ninja, or merely a coincidence -- cruel irony taunting him for the foolish aches in his heart.

“I -- I can’t --” A call from the other room cut him off.

“Hey big guy!”

It was her, and she sounded happy. Her and Michangelo must have finished breaking in her ballet shoes and sewing the ribbons on. 

“Get going, big guy.” Donatello smirked, then winked. Stronger than he looked, the turtle slapped an encouraging hand over Leatherhead’s back (or what he could reach of it) and gave the large mutant a shove. 

A grunt left his maw, and his body straightened from the echoing pain through his bones. Stiffly he exited the labroom, earning an eyeful of Leo and Raph grappling one another all over the floor; definitely not sparring with how sloppy they were and the jeering they growled to one another. Mikey stood on the couch, cheering them on to struggle harder, whooping for whoever looked like they were winning in the moment. Not far from the couch stood his female companion, bending over to grab the sole pair of pointe shoes left. Over her torso was the duffel bag where she dropping the shoes in with presumably the rest. Her gleeful gaze left the battling brothers, raising to catch Leatherhead’s own -- no doubt looking lost after his conversation with the purple-clad turtle. 

Bouncing on the soles of her sneakers, she continued to smile. “You heading back to the lair, or am I sleeping alone and cold tonight?”

“No. I’m coming...let’s go home.”

* * *

Her aches and pains from the day became evident as they walked back to their lair. He watched her put as little weight on her feet she could and held back groans of agony; when he offered to carry her on his back she refused, pushing away his hands. She was a big girl and was used to the soreness since she was young. A tad more unpleasant with her four ninja friends treating her to additional practice and training, she endured it with little complaint -- if anything the sensations felt nice in an odd way, and she looked forward to the morning after where her muscles would remind her of all the hard work. That did not mean she was opposed to some sort of support though, wrapping her arms around the nook of his elbow; he took short steps so she could keep up, and fancied the romantic gesture their position was, as though he was walking her somewhere grand, rather than the damp, abandoned subway station where she promptly dropped her bag and flopped onto the sofa.

He applied soothing lotion to her legs, taking the bottle from her bag and not hesitating to squeeze a generous amount in his large hand. She didn’t pull away, sitting as nonchalance she could through the pounding of her heart within her ears. She carefully eyed his hands, watching as he spread the gel by rubbing them together. Green glistened, catching the light just right to entrance her tired mind. Falling to one knee he cupped slowly and lovingly around her calf as though she were made of glass -- breakable under his touch, not far from the truth. The moment he began to press with the most meager of his strength into her flesh, she could only close her eyes, using the rest of her will not to moan in pleasure, gratefulness, or both. Scales on smooth flesh, his other hand roamed up and down her leg, from the beginning of her thigh, down to her soles; she jumped, ticklish when he pressed into the arch of her foot. The skin there was hard, akin to his own, with blisters like badges from years of dancing. Years of pressing her toes unnaturally against a brick in her shoes and holding all her weight on the tips. No amount of toe guards or tape could protect the skin she put through so much abuse in favor of beauty in form.

With a shaky breath, she looked down to him, crouched and massaging away all the knots in her muscles and pain in her bones. He looked towards her hooded gaze, lingering on her bottom lip lazily being bitten by her teeth. Did it feel good? Was she enjoying the escape from her aching body? Could he possibly press his claws onto her as well, closer to the meatier part of her thighs? He drank in her expression, taking her other leg in hand to relieve it of the torment it had endured. Her eyes fluttered shut once more, but then opened just as fast, bearing all her tiredness for him to see in her gaze. He’d ease her pain for a few more minutes, then guide her to their nest of mattresses, pillows, and blankets...to where he had lost himself to temptation a few nights ago. Cruel of him, truly, despite even cleaning the sheets and blankets thoroughly. He could still see her body under him, so needy for his body to melt into her’s. If she knew what he had done, she would surely deny the thought of sharing his desires ...but he did not confess, even _if_ she was not alarmed by the confession, it would only add to his haunting thoughts.

“Mmmnn,” She hummed, sitting up straight in her spot. She reached a hand to lay over his, ceasing the ministrations. “I’m exhausted. I’m gonna go pass out.”

Rising to his full height, he offered her a hand. “Let me assist you there.”

Fortunately, she accepted, using his hand as leverage to help her from moving excessively. With each step she groaned and hissed, yet she did not take it slow, eager to be in bed under the warm covers that would soothe her aches further. Finally she tumbled onto their bedding, sighing heavily. “Thanks, LH.”

“Of course -- I’ll join you soon. I have a few things to tidy up.” HIs notes from Donatello’s lab, putting her duffel in it’s usual spot beside the sofa, checking his security measures to assure himself no unsavory visitors were near. Despite his disdain, paranoid was the best adjective for how he acted at the thought of being found. No one attempted to argue with him as he planted cameras in the shadows of tunnels he knew, because his fears were reasonable with all of their pasts as support. The worst was when he suspected an intruder, growing irritable quickly and snapping towards anyone who tried to tell him otherwise; not even she could calm his suspicions, so after a few failed attempts, she instead assisting him in reassuring him by stalking the tunnels together, or eyeing the monitors. There was no true danger behind it, ergo there was no reason to try and remedy the bouts, only agreeing to help their friend feel better as soon as possible.

She watched his hunched form walk away, a blurry shape behind the make-shift canopy around their nest. A sight that reassured _her_ that all was right in the world, she sighed contently, the scene relaxing her body into slumber. A mistake on her part, believing herself too tired to dream of alluring darkness and glowing yellow eyes behind it. 

Maybe he had hurriedly done all he needed just so he could finally rest beside her -- Leatherhead did not know. All he knew was that he was done within the hour, closing his notebook and stacking it on top of a doze others filled to the brim with equations and hypotheses. Faster than he expected, yet welcomed as he yawned with a low rumble of a roar. Approaching the curtains on heavy footfalls, he parted them gently so not to make a sound. Peering in he saw her laying there, loosely curled on one slide, arms lazily beside her face and her favorite blanket covering just below her chest; a heavenly image of a good night’s sleep, he was envious for such a night. Stepping in, he pulled his arms behind his back to close the curtains, then carefully walked around and over her. The mattresses dipped at his weight as he sat on his knees, thankfully not waking her -- possibly because she had become accustomed, sensing it was him. Fitting behind her, the large mutant kept a few inches between them in case she shifted and hit him like many times before. There was no fear of crushing anymore, never once happening though being cautious at one point. He too laid on his side, watching her body rise and fall with heavy breathe, syncing his own with her’s like meditation. 

So many nights like this, pleasant and easy. Soon he would be asleep, and then their bodies would deviate position after position until the morning when they awaken inevitably against one another. Weeks had gone by since their last weekend together, right after their conversation about being roommates. Like a jynx it felt like they had cursed their symbiotic arrangement, both keeping a distance to calm down -- unbeknownst to either party. Their beds were cold without one another, however their bodies aflame. Being back together made his reasons seem so silly now as sweet vanilla brought warmth to his chest. Eyes hooded with the need for sleep, the mutant raised a hefty arm, using one clawed finger to move a fallen veil of hair from over her ear and cheek. Silky dark locks, inviting body heat that radiated off her calm body, it sent the swelling emotion in his chest down south where he began to panic. In a frenzy he urged his mind to wander elsewhere, to thoughts which would make him grimace.

Then she shifted, back falling flat on the mattress that a quarter of his body shared. Her head fell towards him and a noisy sigh escaped her nose. And finally she moaned, low and needy, as if she had been doing it for far longer without him noticing. The sound cut through the silence sharper than his own teeth or claws ever could. Caught off guard, he watched wide-eyed as she rolled her shoulders and wiggled hips for a few seconds. Any other time he would have left alone as her rearranging herself to be comfier, but in that moment he took notice of how her bottom pressed down then rolled forward against the mattress. Again she made a noise, echoing around her jaw and hitting him so suddenly he could only blink. Belatedly, he concluded that it was enough and he had to wake her. Once more raising his hand to give her a shake, he stopped when her lips parted to release a wanton song:

“Leatherhead…”

Far beyond friendly was her voice in the night that enveloped them. She gulped soon after, then licked around her lips -- tightly pressed together most likely so nothing else could be heard. Her chin dipped against her clavicle, while her bottom lip sucked in to be chewed on. What could have been a pained expression was far too sensual for that -- breathing quickened and her wispy breathes told a whole other story that had his blood bubbling in heat. He had every notion that _he_ was the one dreaming. Every other night had been like this so far, so why should he believe this was any different? Remembering, the mutant knew he had closed his eyes a little longer than a normal blink called for before she had began -- the moment he most likely dived into slumber. That meant she _was_ right beside though, thus he had to wake up. A quick press of claws to his side, scratching them down scales only he could naturally pierce effectively enough to hurt. 

He didn’t wake up. She continued to dream. And he knew it was of him, much to his disbelief and horror; for if he did not want to do the same beside her, then she did not want to either, beside him.

His hand clasped around her opposite shoulder and at long last he beckoned her to the waking world.

“ _Araceli,_ wake up.”

An urgent whisper that rumbled the mattress she sprawled over and he kept from crowding. She woke with a start, eyes snapping open and a gasp cut short. They stared at one another, hazel to black irises -- shocked to consoling. He understood, this was an unexpected and unwanted situation. He spoke anyways, not wanting her to feel bad.

“You were dreaming….”

She began to blink, coming to her senses; this was horrible, absolutely what she wanted for the night, but she could not help herself. Whatever had triggered the dream was beyond her, like every time, and now she was paying the awkward price. Embarrassed did not do her emotion justice as she realized he was giving her such a soft expression -- pity? Embarrassment of his own for catching her in such a humiliating moment? He must think her a freak just like she thought herself a fool for allowing such dreams to get out of hand. She pushed away his hand on her shoulder and sat up.

Hand on the blanket to pull away, she laughed uneasily. “Yeah, uhm, sorry about that, I just --”

Dangerously Leatherhead shot his hand out again, curling around her arm -- a stick in his large palm. “You called for me.”

“...Yeah..well...It was just, uhm...a dream.” She couldn’t face him, turning her torso as much she could without hurting herself in his grasp. She feigned interest on the floor, focusing on a spot far away from his burning eyes.

“These are... common it seems. This was not the first dream you’ve had of me.” He sounded so excited; was it so easy to tell? She supposed her skills in keeping her emotions and secrets were garbage, he could always figure her out so well and fast.

After a moment, she relented. “Yes...I’ve dreamt of you before, and that's why I’ve been sleeping at my place.”

“Me too.”

Whipping her face around, she gawked at him, unable to comprehend his admission. 

“Well, I mean,” He let her arm go. Slowly he raised on his bottom arm. “Why I have not complained about your absence as much.”

Now he too was truly embarrassed, but did not look away from her wide eyes. He felt so tired, as though all the realizations were hitting him with fatigue, while at the same time releasing the heavy tensions keeping such secret had bestowed onto him.

“You have wet dreams about me too?” She blurted out much to her chagrin -- slapping a hand over her mouth and turning beet red.

“...Yes,” He found himself grinning for some odd reason (a dumb flustered one, he frowned mentally), eyes wrinkling. “I am embarrassed and horrified to admit it, but it is true. Shamefully you have been in my dreams in a lascivious fashion despite knowing it wrong ...yet also natural as we have become so close.”

There was no excuse in eyes for his mind to play him like a fool, but he also knew the heart and mind greedily desired without his say. Ready to receive a scolding -- whether verbal or physical, he would take the punishment -- it was with a flourish of awe that met him. She too was grinning, tears rolling down her cheeks and dusting her face even more red.

“Fuck...this is crazy: we’ve both been acting like fools over being horny.” She began to laugh as well, mixing in sniffles to the affairs.

“It would appear so, how funny.” He only gave a small chuckle as he watched her wipe away her wet cheeks with the back of her hands. Deciding to take a chance, he curled a finger to help, swiping the oncoming tears before they fell with the others. 

“I really like you, LH.” The human continue to laugh. “I’ve wanted to be with you far before the dreams hit. You just make me so happy, and we fit together so well.” She hiccuped.

Remembering his conversation with Donatello, Leatherhead could now confidently conclude that the turtle had been on to something. All his insecurities come forward, but now they fell short with her sitting across from him -- face a mess as she admitted her feelings. She actually felt the same, genuinely talked of him with love and affection, was not disgusted by his less than amiable dreams and desires. She shared them all, shown it not a few minutes ago. 

Hastily she began to rub her face dry, shrugging her shoulders and giving telltale signs that hse was preparing to run away. “I’m sorry, this is stupid, I’ll --”

Her hand moved his away from her face, but he moved it back as if it were nothing, cupping her chin under his flat palm; his thumb caressed the corner of her mouth, relishing at the soft skin. “I love you, Araceli. You mean so much to me -- nothing would make me happier than being with you…..but,”

She jerked away from his touch. “But?”

It hurt, watching her face turn pale in panic. “But I must dwell down here, where the people above will not hurt me more than they already have; and you live above, where you are free and can flourish under the blue skies. A world apart from mine, I would only be a burden for you.” Her face softened, a better expression, yet at the same time just as painful on his heart.

“Do not allow me to chain you here, keep you from being with someone else you can travel together, hand in hand above.”

More tears began to fall, bringing her laughter back. Leaning forward to take her place in his hand again, she moved it to hold the side of her face and brought her own to join: one hand cupping under his, the other laying on his wrist. 

“You really are a fool, just like me. I admit the thought of not being able to openly be together topside hurts It’s not a reason for me to lose interest in us. Nothing could keep me from wanting to be with you.” Her eyes fluttered closed, turning her face so her mouth pressed against his fingers in a soft kiss; he was captivated, lost in the sensation of her round lips against his hard skin. 

“You, nor the facts of life, can keep me from wanting to be with you. I want to hold you hands, kiss your pain away, hold and be held by you so badly it’s honestly driving me crazy. “ Her lashes grazed his skin. “Let’s do this, let’s just be together. I love you too, Leatherhead.”

And he nodded, delicately cupping the other side of her face with his other hand to bring them closer. The mutant croc-gator press the end of his maw to her neck, inhaling her nightly aroma of sweat and flesh, and catching the hints of arousal from her heated dream ( a scent he wanted much more of). She hummed, giggling as the feeling roamed her skin. His hands fell away, instead holding her hips to pull her close as his maw passed by he her neck and she was firmly cradled against his shoulder and chest. They slowly fell back to lay down -- her small fingers pressing over his scales, nails scraping in search of purchase. There was none to be had, but she kept her hand steady against him and the beating of his heart.

“Then let us give this a try.”

“Good, I was ready to fight you.”

“Surely not physically -- you may be strong, but I am twice your size.”

“I would never hurt you physically, at least not with ill intent, but I _do_ have debating skills.”

“Yelling is not debating, that is arguing.” His laugh echoed into her body, causing a hot shiver to roll down her spine.

“Maybe we shouldn’t sleep together tonight? I did just have a nasty dream about you.”

“Maybe so, but after this, I’m sure we are both too exhausted to dream now.”

“...I dunno, I thought the same earlier and here we are.” She yawned, curling into his arms, fitting perfectly like a lock and key.

He only chuckled more. “Goodnight, my love.” 

Feeling her face burn, she peered up to see his own face turning a shade darker as well. 

“Goodnight, mi sol.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We made it to the solid ending, but not where I want to end ;  
> Here’s some notes. 
> 
> \-- This was inspired and given courage to write/publish from a fic on ffnet. I’ve brought in one big aspect from that fic, because honestly it was something I loved and also came from Beauty and The Beast: making LH the solitary beast. Unfortunately it never finished. but that is the fanfiction life i suppose. 
> 
> \-- **[ Further Inspiration ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y6jhwtD09To>) **See Next Note**
> 
> \-- I was initially going to publish a fic of LH’s & Araceli’s relationship from square one (I've got a general basis as mentioned here sometimes), and the overall ballet concerning them was meant to be The Nutcracker and the Sugar Plum Pas De Deux number. It was/is the giant backdrop of major points, and a theme for Araceli. It was to be titled “Someone To Watch Over Me”.


	4. I know it's wrong, it must be wrong

In hindsight, Araceli was so accustomed to everything about him, their situation hardly felt different from any other in her past. That had been a mistake on her part, because it became apparent she was looking through a rose-tinted filter. A _huge_ mistake, coming back to bite them in the ass once reality came down -- not the first nor the last time. Foolishly she thought dreams to be feasible, finding nothing wrong with the facts so obviously before her. A large, crocodile-alligator mutant could not possibly mold to her smaller, human body, or at least not without immense pain. So lost in her pining and lust, Araceli turned away from the truth: _compatibility was highly unlikely_. No matter how many dreams she fell into, no matter how big her toy, nothing would prepare her. A dilemma with no easy or hard solution, only ideas that would end in embarrassment. Yet, both continued to believe otherwise, for where there was a will, there was a way, and damn it all did they desire for a way.

Being an official couple brought this realization to light with every gaze -- his down-turned head to her craned neck. So many differences, so overwhelming, yet also _exciting_. Not only did the change bring forth predicaments like such, but also dangerous new knowledge. The likes of which gave them both new found confidence and thrill as they eyed one another with each passing day. Aware of a shared desire for intimacy far beyond what they already had, a new game was set in motion, one they both agreed on without a sound, only a daring look. New fuel for their challenges, no longer was confession the trophy, now it was a test of will -- who would first break and begin their physical exploration. At times the desire for physical taking had been there in a daydreamed confession, but this was twice as rousing. No limits, no fear of being rejected, only curiosity of the juicy details their respective dreams entailed. A kiss, a tug close, a jump (literal for her), something to begin tearing off clothes and pressing together for sweet delicious friction that plagued them when the moon was high -- that was their new goal.

And maybe these games were stupid, completely unneeded when they were so open to one another and the fact of the matter was accepted knowledge between them. However they did not stop, tortuous as the fiasco was, something more was at play. The thrill of a challenge, of a chase, between both human and mutant; two hunters in a sexually charged endeavor. 

Leatherhead was a horrible cheat, showing just how cruel and sadistic he could be. She had thought herself promiscuous and alluring, but Leatherhead proved to be equal, perhaps even more.The mutant had taken to their game and it showed. He could easily focus himself in research and experiments without a single thought of her until the hour was late and worry came washing over him; in his free time, he would plot. Unlike her, who went through her warm-ups and rehearsals like second-nature, leaving her mind susceptible to other thoughts. When the instructor guided her to a better form, Araceli’s mind gave the barest of focus while her body did as told. The mutant’s towering form and tender hands filled her head, leaving the smallest nook for ballet some days. Mixed with physical exertion, by the time she arrived home, she was unguarded, open to his care and affection. Easy prey for one of his first ever plans.

Hands on her aching ankles, he would knead into her flesh with firm fingers. The knots loosened, and he would look to her from his one-knee stance. “You are very strong, my love.” His voice oozed.

“Your passion is amazing.” His hands raised higher, squeezing the hardened muscles of her calves until they were soft like putty. There was something erotic about the sensation of dense leather and scales on smooth skin. A texture she welcomed and chased after.

“ _You_ are amazing.” He whispered, voice never fake, earnest in his praises despite an ulterior motive.

That had been in the beginning week though, and by now she too found leverage to make him crack; the counter took longer than she liked since his move had been quite effective. She was vocal, calling for his hands all over her pains, encouraging him to further touch her. 

“Mmm, _yes_.” She breathed, slowly letting her chest fall slowly. “Right there, a little harder.” 

And he would comply, albeit his fingers hesitated for a victorious second. His eyes would be hot on her, wide in wonderment, glazed over with arousal. She did not hold back, gently arching her back off the sofa as her head hung back. She’d close her eyes, letting the pleasure from his hands engulf her and be used as an advantage, ernest just as much as he in her voice. The lip biting was a habit she knew caught gazes, and Leatherhead was no different, only easier to spot staring; and a hand through her messy locks, loose and wild from their tight bun, was what she liked to call ‘a cherry on top’ to the allure.

“God that feels good.” She smiled -- not keeping the smugness from his lingering eyes looking down on him. “Please, keep going, you’re doing so good, LH.”

And he would -- awe soon replaced with determination. That was how it was, verbally tempting each other. Him finding validation to egg him on, and she relishing in the praise that made her limp. In a fit laughter they had realized how compatible they actually were in any other sense but physical, yet it did not solve the bigger problem: they needed ways to go around plain and simple fucking. Loopholes so they reached the completion they desired. Not an easy project even for his keen intellect. The days continued to pass with continued rounds of their game, irritation creating additional tension for a solution -- for sweet release. There was an equal amount of normal days to competitive ones where they would just curl into one another and roam loving hands on each other’s bodies for comfort. Those days were always nice and needed with her performance just around the corner.

Going to lunch with her friends helped to a degree as they sat around a table. In front of them were large bowls of ramen, still steaming despite lacking a majority of noodles and broth. Beside Jazmyne, thigh to thigh for no reason other than enjoying the contact, was Araceli. Across from them was Riley, already standing and grabbing his duffel bag; his bowl was the most empty, only bamboo shoots left limp in what little broth there was. 

Jazmyne snatched up the bowl and began pulling the leftovers into her own. “Have fun being lame and going home to sleep so early.”

“Jazz, it’s nine P. M. And we have rehearsals in the morning.” He pulled the strap over one shoulder.

“Please, pulling all nighters and going to work is my forte.” She set his empty bowl down and turned to stirring the new contents in hers. 

“Good for you, but goodnight ladies. See you both in the morning.” He flashed them a dazzling smile, then turned to Araceli where it then softened. “See you at rehearsal, Ari.”

She nodded, distracted by the chopsticks in her hand. Realizing she was being rude, she threw a kind smile back at him a second later. “Yeah, have a safe trip home!” 

When he was out of the restaurant, she went back to the two pieces of wood in hand. Her fingers shook, slowly flexing until one stick slid out of her grasp. “Fuck.”

Jazmyne stared at the door for a moment longer before setting her eyes on Araceli -- taking the fallen stick and trying to reinsert it in her hand. “Your grip is too tight.”

“If I loosen it they’ll fall.”

“Please just stop then, it’s too painful to watch.” The other ballerina shook her head with a chuckle. When her friend did not, she reached a hand over and clamped it down to make her stop. “Enough, let's talk shop: how’s it going with that guy?”

Expecting the conversation, Araceli’s lips curled up as her eyes glistened -- a mischievous expression that made Jazmyne grin like a madwoman herself. “We’ve finally gotten together; turns out we were both being fools and too shy.”

“The more you talk about him the more I wanna ask if he has a friend.”

Four mutant turtles did not count, she mused; especially since Jazmyne was not one to date someone anywhere near three years younger than herself. Two years above Araceli’s own age, the curly-haired woman was more in the search of something akin to a ‘benefactor’ in the monetary area : _”Jazz, just say sugar daddy, your a grown ass adult.”_ An aspect she was not concerned for when it came to her friend. If anything, Jazmyne had more reason to be concerned for _her_ if she only knew the truth behind the man of topic.

“No one of your interests, he tends to keep to himself most of the time.” She pulled her hand out of the other woman’s hold, laying down her unused chopsticks and grabbing the drying spoon on the table. “But yeah, we’ve been a couple for a few weeks now.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

She felt a smidgen of guilt for that, but there was no easy way to tell and allow the news to go down a grapevine of ballerinas. “I’ve been preoccupied: the performance, balancing my bills, the relationship itself.”

Jazmyne clicked the ends of her chopsticks together. “Already got problems?”

“You have no idea.” She murmured into her spoonful of broth; the best bowl of ramen she had ever eaten to be honest. “I bought that toy for a reason, but there are a few other... _safety_ problems we have to take care of in that area.”

“I respect your privacy and won't ask for details, but how bad is it? Give me a number, one to ten.”

“A solid nine, but we ain’t calling it quits. We both want it, _badly_.”

“Damn, horny and deadly, huh?”

 _You have no idea,_ she slurped up her noodles and looked away. The glass window that made the entrance wall was her escape from showing how red her cheeks were. Outside a homeless woman lurched down the sidewalk, a group of highschoolers looking for fun after their school day, and a manhole billowed smoke in large puffs as though a gang of smokers were below. Briefly she thought of the turtles, huddled together sharing a cigarette saved from the floor somewhere; did they smoke? Would their father even allow them though they were adults now without need of his consent. The only one she could believe did was Raphael, because some days he _did_ smell like nicotine -- like her father after a long day of work. Casey smoked, and occasionally April did too, so the possibility was there for Raph who shared more with the wild hockey player than his own brothers. 

Leatherhead didn’t smoke despite it being possible. She could, and would, easily grab him a pack if he asked. Not because she supported it, but because she was so used to walking across the street and grabbing a pack for her father when he was too tired and filled with aches from working on roofs and balancing on planks of wood. Second nature would overcome without a doubt until realization would hit. She was thankful he didn’t, or else they would have to discuss the limits since she had a career to think about. He did, on the other hand, indulge in drinking on occasion. That she could support, enjoying a glass of wine with him on lazy nights in. He could taste what her feeble tongue could not, identifying what wine she brought them each time. The image of his broad hand delicately fingers pinching the stem of a wine glass came to mind. Claws glistening against the clear glass, the color of wine casting over his scaled fingers like blood smeared against his fingertips, but that did not defer her gaze. Unable to stop herself, Araceli would set an intense gaze on his hands and the little glass of scarlet drink, hypnotized at the contrast and suggestive imagery. Absolutely absurd of her to not be scared at the idea -- to turn hot with a shiver along her spine. 

“Damn, you _do_ seem to be zoning a lot more than before. I guess knowledge comes at a price.” Jazmyne brought he back to reality, unknowing of how right she was.

Blinking away her thoughts, Araceli turned back to her friend, the bowl emptier than before. “Yeah, it’s really annoying, especially since we keep teasing one another.”

“Ohh, fun! Not exactly a solution though, just more gas to the fire.”

“I keep drawing blanks to figuring this out. It’s like I’ve never been with someone before when it comes to him. I feel like a highschooler all over again with my first crush.”

“Who was it?”

“Who what?”

Jazmyne reached for her drink as she spoke. “Who was your first crush?”

“Oh...Well, my first crush who really got me all hot was Eleanor Ngo,”

“Wow, what an unfortunate first name.” She set the drink down after a hefty chug.

“Hey! Eleanor is a cool name! She was so sweet, and nice, and she helped me with my history homework ...I really wanted to kiss her. I wanted to date her so badly, but she was a year above me and switched schools before I could confess...God, she’s a nurse now -- I’m friends with her online.” She could remember her soft face and rounded glasses. A smile spread over her lips, the ache of lost love embedded into it.

“You’re a hopeless romantic, Ari.” Jazmyne pushed her food away, slouching back in her seat.

“Yeah, but damn is the romance good. I wish I could just be as confident with _him_ like I was with my past relationships. I had every one of them around my little finger.”

“Sadistic I see,”

“No, just confident ...or _was_.” She deflated, looking into her broth as though the answer would come from it. Only her reflection greeted her, not at all what she wanted to see when she looked so defeated. “When we tease, it's easy, but when we get serious I flop.”

“That just means you really love this guy. He must be super important to you if you keep fumbling.”

Without a doubt, Araceli knew her friend to be correct. Her entire body flushed hot as though she was not aware of the truth. She knew it though, that voice back of her head -- a voice that tried to reason with her -- yet the ballerina paid it no heed. She had always known Leatherhead meant a lot to her -- he had been there for her in the most hopeless part of her adult life. Saved her from quitting on her dreams and career, and in turn she saved him from the monster within. No one had ever cared for her so fiercely as he: not her parent, not her best friends back home, not even the instructor who was like a second father in her school days. Their passion for one another was something entirely new that at times scared her, while also empowering her.

“...What about you, who was your first crush?” She said in her daze.

“David Bowie in The Labyrinth.”

Araceli nodded. “I feel it.”

Perhaps they were going too far in their game this time around, feeling akin to their first one by now. Not at all the desired effect when playing without limits, the point was to make progress and have fun, but the results were slow -- painfully. Ultimately she was left lying alone in her apartment with only her thoughts for company. Well, ‘ _company_ ’ was too kind of a word, rather they ‘ _plagued_ ’ her with a majority being worries. Additionally she could not relieve the little aches in her core now that reality was being a bummer. The moment her fingers went to act upon the sting in her cunt, the thought of ‘ _this is actually useless’_ intruded, killing the mood and leaving her frustrated unlike before; at least back then she could rub a few out without the beginnings of a crisis. Left with one arm over her forehead while the other draped over her stomach, Araceli stared at the ceiling. Instead of staying in her head, every tormenting thought threw themselves onto the poorly painted plaster. They stretched over the skinny cracks that once gave her anxiety, tucked themselves into the corners where broken spider-webs dangled, and most of all, stood loud in bold, ugly, Times New Roman font -- bringing memories of long, mindless essays she faked in her school years.

Last night had cause the current flare of worries and questions. A simple night of spooning like any other, she suspected him of playing possum (a big, scaley possum) curled tightly around her spine with both hands dangerously positioned. His higher elbow laid on his own body, but the wrist dangled over her hip -- fingers seldom brushing down the dip of her pelvis. His lower arm was a strong cushion for her torso, hand turned so he loosely held her meaty thigh. Araceli was cocooned, protected from the damp air outside their little nest, so close to pressing her throbbing core into his palm. Her pajamas had not helped: thin shorts and a tank-top ready to fall and let one or both nipples pop out. The body heat radiating off his large hand was strong, heating her cunt without trying. The pressure and texture of his hand below promised her gentle touches as well, thumb rubbing tantalizing strokes up and down her inner thigh. She wanted so badly to leap into his tempting ministrations and lead his hand between her thighs, but did not. He too never broke. Not when she shifted her weight so her ass was just above his crotch, and somehow not when she ghosted her fingertips over beefy, arm. Those were what he craved the most, her hands caressing him, and she did not blame him when the last few human touches laid upon Leatherhead were Bishop’s, and she could not imagine how cruel they could have been. 

Araceli’s fingers settled over his that fell limp on her hip, or the best they could when the mutant’s fingers were each far bigger than her own. She had felt them twitch -- all she needed to know her taunting was working. Unfortunately that was it, failing to bring their game to an end. Sooner or later the heated desire lulled her to (a shockingly dreamless) sleep, and when she awoke both of Leatherhead’s arms were wrapped around her waist as he snored (an occasional sound that annoyed her like any other snore would). The jerk, he was so strong, so brilliant, and she had wanted him to bury her into the mattress ...until that morning. Not to say she no longer wanted to have sex, but the lust had faded with her consciousness, and with his growls and snarls in her ear, the ballerina became far too aware of the situation. One wrong squeeze and he could snap her spine, a careless turn of his head and there would be a large scar on her face. 

Wiggling, Araceli was able to send the message through to his body: _I’m trying to get up._ Once free from the tight hold she turned on her back, yet never made it to sitting up. A boisterous tune rang through the chamber, followed by vibrations that echoed in their bed. Groggily with narrowed eyes still half asleep, the mutant rose on his lower arm to reach over her. When the alarm clock proved too far (an old item used mainly for her early mornings) he rose further to both knees until the nuisance ceased. All she could do in that moment was stare up at the towering form casting a shadow over her.

Grumbling, Leatherhead let his head fall, only to find her lying beneath him with large eyes. Coming back to his own senses he realized their position was far from the norm and he let his eyes do a quick glance downward. One knee had swung over her body, now trapping Araceli’s small frame between his thighs and her head likewise between his hands. With apprehension he met her hazel stare, prepared to find horror in them, and he was not wrong. Her eyes were soon looking up and down his body, drinking in their position with a cautious gaze, needing time to fully see his entire form from one side to the other. Together they met reality, dread seizing them in an instant with one simple fact: he could have crushed her. He was taking up the majority of her vision by simply hovering over her. She was vulnerable beneath his bulk, flight or fight instinct kicking, yet nothing happened for a silent few seconds where the world seemed to stop turning. Then, oddly enough, she raised her legs -- slow and steady, as though the mutant would be violently startled if she were not careful. Both slid from between his thighs, and finally began parting. Further and further they spread, entrancing him as she presented what laid between both thighs to his heavy gaze. Each stretch outward pulled the flimsy shorts around her thighs higher and higher, becoming taut around the dip of her pelvis. Finally her toes met scales, the farthest parts she could touch without harm to herself, and together they looked down to the sudden results.

Her feet _barely_ pressed down a few centimeters away from the middle of his upper thighs. Splayed out on her back with her body stretched for the taking, Araceli found her ankles _just_ able to hook onto her partner’s hips. It was truly all thanks to years of ballet training, keeping her limber and loose. A weird achievement that pushed away the instinctual fear of being cornered under a large beast like Leatherhead, she was grateful for whatever freaky little voice in her head had pushed her to do it. Turning her pleased grin up to him, Araceli let it fall. There, with his head bowed to better meet her gaze, was Leatherhead, and his expression was one she witnessed only a few times. Brows furrowed in a deep line, corner of his lips pulled back in a dangerous snarl, and pupils undeciding to narrow or stay round, she knew what he was feeling: _hot and bothered_. Ready to take the leap and pounce on her bared body for what they _both_ desired ...and she would let him, because she too found herself aroused from merely their position. Being so open and spread sent a pounding throb to her clit, begging them to close the small gap between their hips and rut to some sort of end. 

But they didn't, and to her it was not out of spite for the game, instead out of wariness from their initial reactions. That was the logical reasoning yet unbeknownst to her, the mutant had taken her splayed legs as a challenge and was teetering over the cliff into her open arms (and legs). The mutant pushed up with his arms, then pulled away to stand, leaving Araceli with both feet planted on the floor and pouting. Observing the scene was no help, a reminder that he was leaving behind a woman laying there exposed to the core for him to hold. He spoke as he turned to leave.

“You’ll miss your train to the studio.”

That night lingered in her mind, imagining what could have been if she had given into him first. The memory of her body open wide and his broad body between her thighs ghosted over her tingling desire. Just a hairbreadth away, the thought of pressing against his firm body, rubbing her stinging tip onto him for sweet friction echoed through her laying body now. The voice in her head foretold she would not reach an end just like the night before, and the one before that, and so on and so forth with the desire being in vain, yet her hand disregarded the thought. Still with an arm over her eyes, Araceli reach the other to smooth down her stomach, under the flimsy tank top she wore the night before. Her muscles twitched and anticipation bubbled alongside the ache in her clit. At the elastic band, her fingers wasted no time sliding underneath to part the small patch of hair over her mound. Nothing threatened to stop her, no voice, no dread, not even the police sirens outside, her fingertips met no resistance and finally laid atop her hard nub. Without hesitation she began to create teasing little circles over the pulsating nub, but that did not last long and soon she was switching between fast swipes to each side, and long stroke up and down.

It was not enough, even when her mind imagined a large finger pressing against her and her hips began gyrating forward to rub one out. It became clear her own fingers were still doing little ...and that she wanted a weapon to use for their game. Allowing herself to continue, Araceli caught her nub between her knuckles and squeezed. She tugged lightly in any direction that caused her cunt to clench, feeling herself begin to ooze to slickness. It came to an abrupt halt, much to her body’s chagrin, and quickly she got to her knees. Under her bed frame, behind pairs of regular shoes, she pulled out the shoe box where she kept her toys. One average sized pink dildo, the one that she considered ‘monster sized’ and purchased all those months back, a bottle of lube, a dozen packets of condoms in various sizes, a bullet vibrator, and a few other items she liked to use on her past lovers. Once she had both dildos thrown onto the bed, she grabbed her phone off the bed stand and jumped back onto the mattress with a little bounce; to hell with her neighbors and thin walls. Giddily, the woman bundled up her blankets not far from herself, then stood her phone upright against it. Positive it would not fall, she spread her legs where she thought would best catch the scene of her wet cunt, then leaned between them to unlock her phone, set it to stay unlocked until she did so manually, and put on her camera. The position was not bad, but it had to a tad farther, so she used her feet too push the blankets back then fixed her fallen phone back up.

Finally satisfied with the scene, Araceli pressed record. A little over a half-hour later, she pressed send.

_**BUZZ. BUZZ.** _

It was well past midnight and of course he was still awake. Leatherhead found himself like this most nights when she was not with him: lounging back on the sofa with a book and a mug of Earl Grey tea. A little sugar in the drink, and the lights lowered to help lull him to sleep, the mutant was content to lay there until the early hours of the day, lost within the thick chapters of a cheesy romance borrowed from April O’Neil. A pleasure he found a bit guilty for a creature of his size and intellect, the three did not sound like a normal mix, but when was he ever normal? Each time he become self-conscious over his choice of recreational hobbies, he would push them aside, whether by mentally doing so, or reminding himself that he was not alone in his little pleasures; Raphael and Michelangelo currently borrowing his own scavenged romance novels. Araceli enjoyed watching him read, and embarrassingly enough she would ask him to read the raunchier side of the genre, at first in jest when they were friends, and now in all seriousness to his refusal. A risky business that caused him to become flustered.

When his phone vibrated on the side-table, he gave it one glance to see the messenger. Raising his brows in curiosity, he kept his thumb between the pages, laid the book down on his lap, and adjusted his reading glasses before grabbing the phone.

Sunshine  


  


U awake?  


  


Yes, reading.  


  


Watcha reading 👀  


  


Last part of the my last read..  


  


with the mean naval captain right?  


  


Yes, he and the pirate are confessing their love :)  


  


!!! SHIT am I ruining the mood?  


  


You’re fine, I’d rather read your texts than this book.  


  


Im blushing ngl, u gotta read me the rest of it another time   


  


Hmmm, only if you tell me why you’re still awake. You have rehearsal tomorrow.   


  


i know, but i was thinking of you ❤️❤️   


  


This late at night? His initial assumption was Araceli laying around with some sort of insomnia plaguing her. Her performance was just around the corner, so her stress could have seized her, or worse, anxiety flaring into a sudden attack. They were far and in between since those horrible beginning months when they first met, but were nonetheless an ailment that came with her big move to New York.

If this was one of those times, then she would have called him. So perhaps he was overreacting.

youre alone right?  


  


A peculiar question, but a valid one. A visit from the turtles were a sort of pop-by or sudden-plans sort of deal, and any from their human friends were far and in-between even after calming down from his hatred. There were no pre-planned company, if so he would have told her last night in passing, and looking around he did not see or smell anyone nearby.

Yes. Why do you ask?   


  


  


i wanna repay you for last night >3c  


  


Last night? Did she mean -- 

i have a little video if your up to it. very saucy, very horny  


  


….Oh….OH! Quickly the mutant sat up straight, knocking his book to the floor and losing his page.

One part of Leatherhead’s mind wanted to say she would not dare record herself doing something so lascivious, yet a louder part proclaimed it something Araceli _would_ do -- the real issue was that he could not fully believe it. She absolutely was that crazy and nefarious, he had seen it first hand. Every play she had made in their game was the proof, and last night was enough to put her on the offense -- he made sure of that. Clearly not enough to have her jumping into his arms, howbeit she had felt it hard enough to up the ante.

Spotting the three little dots denoting her texting back, he quickly sent back a reply.

I’m up for it.   


  


And if I remember correctly, you asked for what happened. Cruel tease.  


  


agree to disagree, but it won’t matter after this ;)   


  


The smugness could be felt from her text and heard in his head. She must be enjoying herself, having him at her mercy as those same three little dots taunted him. No more than a minute must have passed by, enough time to let a video be sent, yet it felt longer. In that short time his mind became alert, lifting his face from the modified cellphone to make sure he was _truly_ alone. Once that was confirmed, he picked up his mug of tea and gulped down the last of it; a mistake that had his face scrunching up. Then he remembered his glasses and folded them to lay on the side table. Finally the video finally came through and nothing improved as he stared at the thumbnail -- already sending a hot current down his spine. From what he could tell she was sitting on her bed, both her legs bare, and the play button was large enough between her thighs to cover what he barely made out to be underwear. A white, orange-striped pair in color, obstructed and skewered under the play icon.

He was alone.

He was comfortably on the sofa.

And he would waste no more time.

He was right on her underwear, not lingerie per se, but designed well enough that they made casual look provocative. There was no segue way into her touching other than a quick little jump and wiggle to make herself comfortable, then her hand descended onto herself. Obviously she had been working herself beforehand, a dark spot dead-center on her underwear the telltale sign. All of which brought a realization to him: this was an impulsive decisive and sloppy play in the game. Comical, honestly, enough to make Leatherhead chuckle until his focus returned to her slim fingers. The middle digit slowly brushed up and down her covered slit and his eyes followed. An oasis between two raised knees, hypnotically he watched, awaiting for something more to happen. Above the action was her stomach, dressed in a tank top that rose evenly until all at once it stuttered. Under her finger her muscles gave a small clench, pulling at the the dampening cloth. Then there was a soft sigh of relief, and that was when he had another realization.

The video frame was cut off at the top, right across her neck, keeping him from seeing anything above. Was this his true punishment, the inability to see her chew on that pouty bottom lip, to watch her eyes flutter and glaze over as she lost herself in pleasure? Araceli was a formidable foe and equal, having figured out the treat he was looking most forward to now that they were together: her beautiful face he loved so much. Perhaps it was the way he gazed towards her, or even how he would caress her soft cheek like the brightest treasure in the world. She made no sign of noticing, but that was how skilled she was at keeping her cool -- a performer at the core. 

At Least he could hear her, imagine the way her lips puckered with the last bit of her sigh. Like the calm before the storm. Her hips gave the slightest lurch up, impatience setting in after so much soft foreplay. Her finger stopped at the top of her slit, pressed against her clit, then began pressing down in small circles. Once again her inner thigh muscles clenched, harder, but held back to show she had _some_ control over herself. His own position became uncomfortable and the mutant found himself sliding down the back of their sofa to slouch and spread his legs. Better to keep his own thighs from keeping his growing arousal contained; no one was there, and this was what she obviously wanted him to do.

Her clit rubbing was fast to stop, insufficient to the point she deemed it better to drag her finger tip upward and toward the hemline of her underwear. The sensation must have tickled, for her stomached tucked in and her thighs jumped a smidgen to close. She was sensitive; that made him grin. He had almost forgotten about it, and he could not wait to take advantage of it in bed. The arches of her work-weary feet were a given when kneaded by his thumbs, but now that their need for touch was heated, desperate to have skin to skin contact, her receptive body was bared just to him in a whole new way. And, _oh_ , what he would do to her with that information. Seeing her react now was an exciting reminder, watching as she snaked her hand under the white, orange-striped underwear. The fabric bulged, clinging to the shape of her bent fingers. Eager still, the quick jerking of her fingertip shifted her underwear, failing in hiding her movements, but succeeding in keeping him in the dark. The damp spot had grown down the striped expanse that covered her heated sex, and he wanted nothing more than to tear it off with his teeth to gaze upon her cunt that no doubt was wet. Skilled, the human was doing well in keeping herself in check, stopping her body from rocking into her palm than was necessary for teasing. 

Luckily for him, her voice held little discretion, denying her attempts at smothering it. Small as they were, those little keening noises that came from the back of her throat -- from the deepest part of her desire -- were the sweet notes to his own personal symphony. The sparks starting up and keeping the flame of pleasure going. With his free hand, Leatherhead took his hardening cock, deciding to practice his own control by starting with slow pumps up and down his length. On his screen she continued her frantic small strokes over her nub, the only change being her body’s jerking. Every bit of her muscles succumbed to jittery little shudders, losing herself in the pleasure for what sounded like the first time ...or better yet in a long time. She was giggling in a foolish manner that confused him, but also made his body flush hot. There was no strength in him to restrain the gentle grin over taking him, nor the sigh of endearment. Whether or not his guesses were right, that him possibly watching her was of help, his answers would come when the video was over.

At long last, her patience ran dry in the most dramatic way possible, whipping her hand out of her underwear. With the very same flair her body wiggled so she was flatter on her back, revealing her lips, already flushed from biting off-screen. And her damned grin, wide with smugness, soon taking the corner of her bottom lip in a provocative manner. How envious he was, wishing he were there to flash his tongue over her plump lips, desiring to part them and take claim of her own pink tongue. He had felt that very same mouth on his cheeks and hands, he could remember how warm they were and how they moved when she hid herself into his palms -- too flustered sometimes to look him in the eye when talking. Was it cruel of him to feel a thrill thinking of making her lips hot and glowing from his coarse kisses? Would she allow him to taste what was there, swallow her moans like sweet ambrosia? They had yet to attempt kissing properly, yet every part of her he wanted to try and claim. Not only her lips, but from the little nook just below her earlobe, down to the pool of honey between her thighs. Not an inch of her would go unloved by his hungry mouth.

He almost failed to see her hand move, sliding under the pillow behind her and pulling out a pink dildo. Of course she owned one, Araceli was a full-grown woman with a life beyond him, the sewers, and even ballet. It was only natural and nothing he knew she was ashamed by -- her bringing it out so casually only proved that point. It was nothing special to him, an average size for a human, the only aspect that had him amused was the color, because _of course_ she would have it in some funny color. The way she handled it too, twirling it around her nimble fingers to hold correctly as if it were a simple parlor trick, did not shock the mutant either. It kept his attention though, especially as she raised the tip to her lips -- puckering them to lay a small kiss on the item. His jaw clenched and a breathy growl rumbled from his chest. 

She pulled it a breadths width away to create a small ‘O’ with her lips, then wrapped them around the head. In an instant she tilted it upward and the dildo popped off with a small wet sound. He could see the satisfaction in her growing grin, proud of herself for her theatrics. She knew how to put on one hell of a show, that he could admit as his mind was continually filled with her image. Without hesitation the ballerina parted her lips a little more, pulling the dildo’s tip between them, but not stopping at the head. Casually she slid more and more into her mouth, stretching her lips in their small shape, as if she was sucking the silicone shaft into something smaller than it actually was, and damn did he feel it. The ache at the base of his cock pulled hard, craving her around him instead; if she wanted to be stretched, he’d show her stretched. To better his view, she tilted her chin up slightly, and towards her hand holding her toy, showing off her throat and the hard gulp she swallowed. 

Once she reached the half-way mark she whined, as if she wanted more but couldn’t take it; and maybe it was true, he could not be sure, but if that was the case he felt a pang of worry enter his mind. Before that could grow out of hand, a shiny sliver of saliva fell past her lips, trailing down her chin. Slowly she pulled the dildo away, and in its wake thick webs of drool stretched out until finally the head rested on the flat of her tongue. Following her motions, his hand stopped it’s lazy pumping, thumb swiping over the head of his erection as if it were her tongue now on the fake cock. With one last pull up, one final thick string of saliva followed. If that were his weeping cock that last string would be far more thicker, and her mouth painted a creamy color of thick pre and spit. A lovely sight, his thumb halted suddenly, lost in watching the dildo descend. She spread her thighs, and with her free hand lifted the band of her underwear.

The fabric stretched, accommodating for the new addition underneath. With a side-tilt of his head, Leatherhead gazed on her cunt, wishing he could better see the penetrating cock enter his partner’s wet hole. It slid in without a hitch, horribly nonchalant to rile him up. Further questions and scenarios entered his mind: his size was bigger than the cheap toy in her hand, so would he slide in smoothly like that? Why couldn’t she have pulled the bottom part of her wet underwear away to insert it? The whole act made his blood boil with frustration and need, knowing that if he were there those pathetic panties would be _shredded_ off and his cock slipping into her hot cunt instead of her tacky little toy. The pain of going slow for her sake would be worth it if he could make her whimper like she was now. Every centimeter in was followed by a needy noise. Her knees raised, twitching to pull close and touch, yet never doing so or else he’d lose his view. Absently his own hand had begun to move again, copying her teasing movement.

She reached the hilt, and together they pulled out. Then back in, and out once more with long, steady strokes. Her teeth clenched and lips pulled back like she would snarl in anger. He would have persuaded her do it, threaten him in the most primal way with snarls and growls, demand he take her and satisfy the stinging tension of craving. He would give in fast, and meet her feral debasement with animalistic fervor until she was a mess. That was his own primal side talking, the part of him he did his best to keep tamed less he lose control of his anger, or worse, his ability to keep from hurting someone. From what she had shown him so far in the relationship though, Araceli would probably laugh. His heated gaze always sent a shiver down her spine, one his slivered-eyes could see so well; and her experience with his unsavory moods always ended in favor of her soothing him. Seeing him lose control was nothing new, and his wicked wants only seemed to urge her on. The control she had over him, even when his senses were overloaded with red -- bloody or passionate -- was an earned gift, for he would never hurt her. Not even if he were to lose himself in her body, the moment her whimpers became pained, or she told him to stop, he would stop in a heartbeat, uncaring of his hard cock. Araceli’s well-being came first.

Her pace quickened, and he followed. The dildo slapping against her folds, creating wet squelches that echoed in the lair. She was holding back her musical moans again, but failed when it came to the choked whines from the back of her throat. He watched her body rock gently and her hand frantically slide the dildo inside, underwear pulling and falling with each thrust. His arm relaxed on his thigh, setting the phone not too far from his stiff erection. A mistake, a tumble down the hole of deprecating and anxious thoughts just waiting to happen as a side by side comparison was screaming between their needy sexes. There was little to no anatomical difference from what he knew to keep them from attempting intimacy, but the sizes….that was another issue he was not about to keep him from enjoying her right now. Swiftly he raised the phone’s bottom to press to his chest, then shifted to lay better on the couch -- head on the pillow at the armrest, and one leg on the cushion while the other pressed its sole to the floor. A position Araceli hated to do herself, wary of a double-chin, but Leatherhead thought nothing of it, not even if it were possible for him to look the same.

She stopped, and he kept going. Once more her free hand -- having laid limp beside her head -- moved to the band of her underwear, pulling it away, only this time the pull was wider. Out came her pink toy and behind it a thin string of her wetness -- almost as thick as her saliva was. She had been wetter than he thought, and now he was aware of how velvety needy she could be. His eyes did not leave the dildo, hypnotized as her juices shone on the bright plastic, truly heavy like honey and no doubt sugary as it. Licking over his sharp ivories, Leatherhead watched his lover waste it all, letting her cheap substitute of a cock fall to the floor like the useless hunk of silicone it was. She must have recognized how unsatisfying it had been, and he longed to do her right and give her all she desired. She hadn’t come yet and neither had he, but that was normal on his end -- even when her scent and the flaming aches she lit in him drove him to completion, the mutant could take a while most days in orgasming -- Araceli, on the other hand, was more likely to have reached an orgasm by now based off his biological knowledge. She had been going hard and long, yet it had not been enough for her human body. Yet there she was, reaching her hand once more under the pillow for what he assumed to be another bigger and better toy to pleasure herself with. 

And he was not disappointed, because it _was_ better, and it _was **bigger**_. 

Utter shock overcame him, freezing him to the spot as he eyed a dildo completely different from the last one. This was no average _human_ size, it was... _monstrous_ , for lack of a better description. When did she purchase it and how many times had she used it? He didn’t need to ask why she owned it, for it’s color did all the tattling: an olive green with a fading pink gradient from the base to a few inches up. And their long heated games had left them both wanting, not just emotionally, but physically, thus it was no surprise that she had found a solution. Her fingertips were able to curl around it, but the item covered a little over half her palm. The size difference made him chuckle, not exceptionally crazy of a size, but nonetheless there. This time she could not do her little trick of twirling it around her fingers, having to use the other hand in helping position it in her grasp. She didn’t bother with lubricating it with oral foreplay and the mutant raised a brow -- was she that confidant with her wet hole? There was no smug grin, nor impish giggle to taunt him, only her bottom lip trapped under her teeth and her spread legs giving him a perfect view. 

Sliding the toy under her panties, the shape of it slowly disappearing into her sex was breathtaking. Truly she _was_ slick enough to take in length and girth, and he was left with a slightly dropped jaw. She was absolutely enticing, lifting her chin to release a quivering gasp as she was filled. Her cheeks turning pinker by the second, hot and slowly growing sweaty atop her brow. Was she pushing herself for him, or was she just lost in her ecstasy? He hoped for the latter, so when the time finally came for them to be entwined, his beloved would melt in pure bliss rather than anything else. Their worries seemed so far away now, like an overthought fear from developing the relationship further. A last minute attempt to stop them from possible ruining what was already going so well. Watching as she took the hefty sized dildo only strengthened that view, proving to him she was passionate -- _eager_ \-- enough to not give up if anything went wrong between them. At last, when her hand stopped, she openly moaned, the sound carrying up to the heavens above and through his phone speaker. Soft, like a whisper, but cracked by a trembling cry. It ended with a hum, long and pleased, savoring the moment. A syrupy noise he yearned to devour. The moment lasted a few seconds, allowing her time in adjusting whatever required it. Then, once more, she began to pull the toy out, and once more the mutant’s hand followed. Slow, steady, Araceli’s back arched what looked like five inches off the mattress, before dropping -- most likely having pulled out to her desired point. Her mattress groaned, taking a second to settle, and in the same fashion she had pulled, she dove back in. Her hesitation was more pronounced this time around, in a way that said she was not entirely accustomed to the size, but his mind absently ignored that idea, favoring the slow intake and her face engulfed with bliss. If she was having a hard time, she was enjoying it too.

Too slow for his own satisfaction, Leatherhead ignored her hand and set his gaze to her glistening lips where breathless mewls flowed from. Closing his eyes, he focused solely on her sounds, both from her mouth and between her thighs that echoed the nasty gush of contact of her soaked sex and fake cock meeting. Behind his eyelids the mutant could let his imagination take hold, bringing forth his fantasies he once thought as inconceivable, but now he knew better. Now he knew she had felt the same, and with her love kept in mind, he no longer felt guilty. She willingly shared this moment with him, pleasure in every twitch of a muscle, moan from her lips, and slap of her needy cunt; she too was doing the same, and together they both imagined the other one there in their mind’s eye. He was in front of her while she was pressed against the cold wall of their home, but the cold did not bother them when between them it was blisteringly hot. She spread wide for his hips, ankles hooked over them, knees pressed into his side as his bulk kept her open. He could not see the details between her thighs (let alone of her chest he had yet to see) still he felt the knowledge of what lay there send his heart racing. It was there he eased into her, careful for her comfort (like she had with the toy), bringing forth her wanton pleas of pleasures. Her arms around his neck clawed into his scales, following his push in, and he could practically feel them -- having imagined them so many times before. Finally, chest to chest, he could not stop his imagination from letting loose, and where he once would have reprimanded himself for the loss of control, Leatherhead felt confidence he would not do her wrong in where his mind was taking them. Her show with both fingers and toys drove him onwards, knowing now what she desired the most -- to be fucked. He could not blame her too, because obviously she had been fantasizing (like him) of them being together, growing shameless for what she craved, becoming intimately well-versed in his body; size, weight, weak spots, personal desires, and better yet, how they could possibly relieve their sexual tension. Once they were comfortable, there would be little holding them back from losing themselves in each other. 

Closer, he was getting closer to his end in a whole new way. The piercing in his weeping sex like a splintering bow with the string pulled far past it’s limits. Urgently his hips pushed off the sofa no more than an inch or two as his hand wildly stroked over his aching erection. Like her, he held back his louder growls of ecstasy, only allowing heavy breaths that contained strained curses underneath them. All at once, closer became now, and everything snapped to pieces. 

Her voice rung out despite its choked sound.

“Mnnhhhh….Fuck…. _Leatherhead._ ” 

And the moment became far too real, slamming into him like a blow to the chest; he was taken by so much surprise, not even a final cry could be released. Under the darkness of his eyes he saw flashes of white, then yellow, and finally blue as everything in him clenched tight. His hips had been mid-shallow thrust when he came, fist pulling down on his erection, easing his orgasm out perfectly. He regretted not being prepared with a towel.

Laggardly he was grateful his hand had not crushed the phone in hand. He watched her continue to pump herself with leisure, still growing practiced in the size of her toy. Had she gone longer, he would have most likely gotten hard once more -- slower than earlier, but no less hungry. At last, she gave one final push in, and her body curled in on itself: knees rising and finally meeting together, back arching once more, as though she were attempting to keep something inside. The fake organ (he could not call this one _cheap_ , knowing it was not ordinary, therefore not easy to buy) held nothing for her though, and Leatherhead felt pity for his partner. 

Silently he once more promised he would give Araceli whatever she wanted and asked of him,

She was coming down, but her body was not calm as she pulled the toy from her underwear; it too caught the light, covering in her thick release. Nimble fingers fell to her cunt, hooking her middle finger under the bottom patch that covered her sex -- giving coy pull to the side. Like a curtain opening to a grand show, Araceli showed her bare slit to him, and Leatherhead felt the tight tingle in the back of his skull -- telltale of his eyes only again narrowing. A dangerous move, one that would cost them dearly in their game. He knew she was soaked and heavy under her panties, but seeing it now held no equal to those words. Creamy and glistening, her inner folds were puffy and flushed hot from fucking her hole with two different dildos. Pressing salt to his aching wound, she slid her forefinger over the swollen, slippery mess and her thick essence followed. A small swirl, a slow pull off, and he was salivating for a taste. For good measures, she gave a few hard taps, causing a tiny wet noise to sound off, as if she was filled with even more warm sweetness, or perhaps white come, but he had not seen any indication her toy was filled with fake release; he would never admit it, but pornography was easy to come by and brought this odd knowledge of such a thing to him.

The tides were not turning in his favor as she stuck her pink tongue out and licked a fat stripe up the meaty toy, well on it’s way towards making his cock jump up once more. Once she was off the tip, she grinned, revealing her teeth that were not a fake pure-white nor perfect in shape. It was purely her, Araceli, his amazing lover, and that was what he loved the most about her. She was not extraordinary, perfectly imperfect, and true to herself.

The video stopped, a sudden reminder that he had been watching a performance recorded earlier. It felt much longer than what the video actually was, and if he was not tired before, he sure was now.

Quickly he realized she was still awaiting a reply, probably growing anxious and regretting the decision. So after wiping his used hand on his thigh, Leatherhead began to type up a reply.

Sunshine  


  


You’re a cruel woman.  


  


:3c  


  


Stop That.  


  


Did you purposefully acquire the last toy in green, or was it a coincidence?   


  


i felt so gross and embarassed for that choice but ill be damned if i didnt and dont know what i want   


  


I admire and respect that about you. As you would say: I feel it.  


  


damn we horny, huh?  


  


Indeed.  


  


Thank you for being a horrible tease and sending me that. I honestly feel a lot better knowing we are on the same page in this relationship. .  


  


Tiredly, Leatherhead sighed, relief in more than one way easing his body.

  


i love you so much...i love our games, but also want us to take our time and go at a nice pace.  


  


Jazz told me something thats absolutely true: i care a lot about us so much, i keep fumbling in what to do next. but its moments like these, when we take a plunge together, that gives me confidence that we’re being true and going in the right direction.   


  


I love you too, and I would write much more if I were not so tired.  


  


You surprised me in many ways.  


  


glad to keep you on your toes. Get osme rest, ill see u tmrw for dinner.   


  


Noting her typos -- more than her usual -- the mutant smiled fondly.

  


Sleep tight, sunshine. Text you in a few hours.  


  


nigthn❤️❤️❤️  


  



	5. But right or wrong

It was a blessing the two of them overcame any awkwardness that night could have brought. If the morning after was as awkward for him as it was for her, then he did not show it. Leatherhead was his usual self, but perhaps that was because of the work he had become occupied with. The smallest change she could catch on to was his nose buried in the crook of her neck as though she were the sweetest flower he’d ever smelt. She was not complaining, reveling in the love like a spoiled queen; not unusual for the beginning of a relationship, yet it was far past "beginning", and no end seemed to be in sight for the treatment.

So the days went on, and while she continued to practice her role of Giselle, Leatherhead went on to spend hours on end at his lab table. Late nights and early rises, Araceli would wake to find him looking at his journals, and her metal water-bottle filled with freshly made coffee beside her pillow. By now she knew better than to disturb him, knew when he was far too lost in his specimens to leave them. She also knew when it was best to grab his attention: between his body _demanding_ he tear himself away, and dinner -- the only meal he would eat during those days. Some nights it was easy as leaving a plate in place of his keyboard, other nights she would be forced to raise her voice like a scolding mother, holding her ground to his sharp eyes. Once upon a time he was terrifying to her, but now his warning glares fell on a quirked brow and a snarl of her own. He always relented…. _almost_ always. On those rare nights there was nothing she could do despite her worrying -- the mutant would not eat. Something she could never do, not only because she loved food, but dancing demanded her body be in tip-top shape and eating kept her from fainting. 

Briefly she wondered how long he would be working on the current project — sitting at the couch with her stare on his large backside. How long could he truly go with so little self-care and maintenance? The longest she had witnessed was a little over a week where she did not find herself worrying, not like now. It was well over that record though, hitting the middle of week two. Over two hours since coming over with take-out dinner and serving them both, Araceli turned her attention to the untouched plate by his computer monitor. It would not do, she had to get him eating and out of his work.

Standing and dusting off her night shirt, she would have silently made her way towards him, but that was never a good idea — whether he were a mutant or not. Instead the ballerina made sure to pad her way over there, then stopped behind him. 

“Leatherhead,” Her voice was firm in gaining his attention even if for a split second. As long as he recognized she was there, nothing unexpected would happen. She had learned that the hard way, luckily with no injury, only further awareness of the truth: he could be dangerous. That felt like so long ago, and it might as well have, but the lesson still held true despite all the love and weaknesses they shared together.

He continued to work, immersed in writing while simultaneously looking through a microscope. She continued onwards, pressing her spread fingertips to his back with as much force possible against his dense skin. “You gotta eat babe.” 

It was no question, but a straight fact. It took a second before his hand stopped taking notes, the only indication he truly heard her; his other hand on the microscope turned it’s little cog. “I did, a few hours ago.”

“Babe, that was two days ago, and it was hardly food.” She took another few steps so they were side by side -- her hand roaming up and over his side to settle on his thick bicep (or what she could reach of it anyways). She craned her neck, hazel eyes round under a downward brow. “That was a smoothie, and you didn’t even finish the yogurt that it came with.” nor had he paid much attention to what he was doing as he hovered over a journal and inhaled the drink in two gulps in a large cup made  _ specifically _ for his size. The yogurt had also been spilled on the corner of his notes, yet it went uncleaned as he fell back to work. 

Shifting her eyes to said book found the stain still there.

The tip of his pencil began to tap, leaving small dots. “I’m almost done.”

“No, you’re not, and you never will be, because I know you. You get caught up in work, just like me and Leo, and zone out.” Her hand carefully made it’s way down his arm, all the while scratching her nails to elicit a reaction. His own stopped, a small twitch echoing down his arm. trusting it was not a warning, Araceli turned her hand once at his wrist, and laid her skinny fingers over his own. 

“You don’t have to stop for long, just enough to eat a proper meal.” Her thumb rubbed soothing circles against his skin -- tracing the small scales around his fingers. 

There was tension in the air, the kind she could not name. What little she could feel of it was like a mixed pot. Apprehensive that he may be upset and snap at her, then the thick air of arousal from her simple touch -- a norm for them that had gone neglected since starting his work; the few times she had touched him during the week were on his coat as to not disturb his work. The last proper touch they shared was the evening after the video, his arms enveloping her in a loving embrace, his nose buried in her neck as he rubbed their cheeks together. She didn’t blame him for being so taken with this skin to skin contact, it too was affecting her, desiring his entire palm on her cheek and his strong arms whisking her away to lay down. Araceli had known in the back of her head that he was becoming an addiction: his sharp eyes that seemed to pierce through skin and bone and straight to her heart, his voice so soothing and collected as though he were the most skilled poet,  _ and his touch _ , sending her skin alight with electric shivers and goosebumps down her entire frame. This touch was more than what she had received in the past week and a half, and it was hitting both of them -- loud proof that the small voice in her head was correct.

Finally, he pulled away from the microscope, not completely, but enough that she could see dark irises from the corner of his eyes. It had been a small space between him and his observations, but once he got a good look at her the mutant not only draw back further, but his eyes widened, 

“What time is it?” 

“It’s nine PM -- why?” 

His wandering eyes were unabashedly shocked, but soon scrutinized with a curious quirk of his brow. Just as intrigued, she looked down on herself, gaining an inkling as to why he was looking her up and down. She was in her nightshirt, a long item that could have very well been a gown if it were another an inch or two longer. It flowed around her thighs, leaving little to the imagination for what was underneath it (or what was left on his own after the video). Simple, cotton, thin, and with a low neckline off her shoulders, it was nothing less of what she usually wore at night, but it had been so long since he had even glanced her way. Maroon, with a design akin to a jersey around the short sleeves and torso, if it were not for the short length, the shirt would have been far from alluring. Perhaps it was the same as their touch, scarcely a glance between them, only the bare minimum of interaction as they both went along with their schedules.

“I see then….” He blinked twice, then gave his head a shake. Hope rose in her chest, turning the corners of her lips up. His eyes went back to the microscope, and just as quickly he turned to his journal. With one last scribble Leatherhead shut the little book. 

“I believe I’m done with my project.” Finally their eyes met, bringing a grin to both their faces. “Dinner sounds wonderful.”

“Good, let me warm it up real quick!” 

Grabbing his plate at the computer desk, Araceli showed him what was on it before scurrying to the kitchen area of their home. It was not a fancy meal, something she ordered off GrubHub: steaks, potatoes, and broccoli. Healthy and hardy for the both of them on a Friday night, she ordered three additional plates for him, wary of his large appetite. Five minutes later and all his food was steaming as though it just arrived from the delivery man. Giving it all a few pokings at with a fork so everything was settled, she turned to find her partner putting the last of his tools away; microscope covered up and put into a lower cabinet, slides cleaned, specimens packed. Her plan had gone better than expected, which she imagined would’ve been a long back and forth to convince him. Her touch was not always an upper hand when he was lost in working, thus she was ecstatic it was successful this time around.

By his side once more, she watched him put his notes on top of the stacks by the computer. When he turned to face her again, he nodded to the couch. 

“Join me where we can relax? I’ve been standing for hours.”

“You’ve been standing for  _ days _ .” 

Once comfortable -- Araceli curled on her usual spot by the armrest, and Leatherhead on the opposite side so he could eat without hogging up the couch space -- she turned so her side laid against the couch's back and her arms folded on top where her head now rested. She gazed upon him, content in watching his body loosen. A ripple effect down his leathery skin, the muscles underneath slackened, occupied with holding his plate in his lap instead of keeping himself upright. When he began to eat at long last, she found a heavy breath release itself, unbeknowingly held since approaching him a few moments ago. She took the remote from the middle cushion between them, and turned to the television that had been playing on low volume.

The television itself was old, antique in its early 2000’s model. The buttons were big for no other reason but poorly thought out design. Despite the screen being quite large, the latter aspects stuck out like a sore thumb. The back, too, was far too big, victim for poor “that ass though” jokes by Mikey, Raph, and herself. For something straight out of the New York dump though, it did its job well. Fine tuning from Donnie and Leatherhead made the colors sharp, and though the edges tended to fade as if the television was actually from the 80s, it brought a sort of nostalgic feel to what they watched. So as the late-night talk show host went off on a well scripted joke, the duo fell into a cozy silence. Well, maybe not completely silent.

Even as an intelligent mutant, Leatherhead still had the maw of a beast. Large ivories that at times could not be kept in his mouth, and a wide jaw made for giant bites. Try as he might, the croc-gator had trouble keeping himself behaved when eating, but more often in front of her. There was no opening for him to follow his trained skills in civil eating when she was around, she had made sure of it by accepting the facts. She would not have him pretend to be what he was not, no matter how much he wanted to. In front of their human friends Leatherhead was careful, in front of the turtles he let his guard fall, in front of her, restraining his natural need to snap his jaws was never an issue. Hence the space between them as he went on to his last dinner plate. Nothing more than a background sound like the constant buzzing of the subway wiring, or the wailing of a siren, Araceli found her eyes becoming heavy. The show mixed with the clash of fangs like a far off dream until she felt the demanding gaze on her face.

He had been staring for far too long, eyes trained on her lips. He hadn’t meant to, a quick look to make sure she was comfortable, but wasn’t that how everything started nowadays. He had been distant with her for so long, half-purposely, half-suddenly finding a breakthrough with a project that had been shelved months ago. Flustered by the next day from her tempting video, the mutant had gone to his journals to tame his wicked thoughts; that night after he put his phone away he had dreamt again with no restraint towards dipping into her. That morning he had showered as soon as his eyes opened, desperate to wash the evidence off him. Fortunately he had been on the couch, unfortunately he had to double scrub the cushions they now lounged on. His writings of the project had been thorough and admittedly boring even for him, yet something had clicked in his mind, igniting a different kind of flame within. A mistake to indulge in, there was no time to be awkward with his beloved, but it had backfired in unforeseen ways. 

How he  _ yearned _ for her nails to dig into him, down his arms and over his most sensitive areas. Smooth like silk, soft like a pillow, he wanted to  _ feel _ her,  _ press _ against her as hard as he could and curl around her as if they were made to fit one another. How had he once pushed these desires away? He could not fathom that time where he and her were able to act tame with one another and danced around their feelings. Now he was walking on thin ice, dangerously close to falling deep within those waters, but not to freeze, rather he would burn. When his eyes finally fell on to Araceli after the recent week and a half, his abdomen had tightened, and it took more willpower than ever before to keep from charging forward and wrap her long legs around his waist like that night days ago. His stomach helped, growling at him to finally eat. Nothing was there to assist him now though, thus his gaze lingered, dumbly stuck on her lips. Plump, velvety, perpetually pouting as if she were ready to receive a kiss, and that was exactly what consumed his current desire. She was unguarded, curled up in an alluring manner by sheer accident. Her tawny thighs dangerously close to being completely uncovered. Her sleek legs shining from the television’s ever-changing hue. Her lithe body turned just right to show the curve of her hips. In the end, her loving eyes and beautiful lips kept him still, eyelids serene with satisfaction and the corners of her lips slightly upturned.

They had yet to even talk about kissing, and who could blame them. She may have been used to his uncouth eating and dangerous maw, his sharp claws, and his lumbering form, all that was not enough to give either of them courage to discuss it. Even in his fantasies kissing was not an action they partook in despite his lingering eyes on her, but all the same it was a part of his longings. Did she imagine them kissing in her dreams? Would she be taken aback if he were to lean in and give it a try? His mind raced for answers, rationally imagining how they may lock lips. Logically he was aware of the dangers his sharp teeth brought, more so than his claws could ever be, yet….

He set the plate down on the floor, lacking anywhere else to put it.

She had caught him, heavy eyes meeting his own. Gently her lips parted in the same small ‘o’ she had done when pleasuring herself. Together they gazed, focusing on each other as the rest of the world blurred out of view. Before either of them knew it he had leaned in, but not before pinching her chin between his forefinger and thumb. Her eyes fluttered, lashes fanning over her round cheeks; his fingers were so thick and large, easily overtaking her, leaving no attempt to fight even if she wanted to. Slowly, relishing the sight and feel of pulling her chin down and lips apart, Leatherhead watched as the pink of her tongue glistened in the artificial light and glare of the television. A strong heave from his nose sent a hot flush over her body -- blood boiling red under her earthy skin, just pale enough to see. His eyes darkened, and Araceli could not turn her own away even if she tried as he craned her neck up. He loomed over her, yet her eyes sparkled under his shadow.

Her mind went blank, lost in the intense expression on his face, hot under his smoldering gaze and touch. She failed to see his maw carefully begin to open, nor his tongue reach to press against her lips until finally it did. Just the tip, perhaps a bit more --she couldn't tear her gaze from his to see-- following the shape of her upper lip. Testing the waters, giving her a chance to pull away. She didn't, allowing him to continue what was exploration for the both of them. Did he even notice her breath had caught? Her heart jumping into her throat and beating loud and hard against her chest? Could he see the quiver in her lips, lost and unsure in what to do as he traced their shape. He didn't look it, but she could guess he too was perhaps unsure on what to do next. 

She knew what had to be done on her part though, there was a voice in her head that told her so. That foolish little voice she knew so well. Like an instinct she let it take over, reaching out her own tongue. He stopped, looking down on her glistening parted mouth where her tongue laid thick on her bottom lip, open for the taking. He looked amazed, as if he had not expected her to be so open with it all. Absolutely amusing to her, who thought it normal of her to be so wanton with him, especially after her video stunt. Finally he took the hint, leaning down further and cautiously licking a stripe down from the top of her mouth's bow to her tongue. She welcomed his tongue between her lips, then openly let him delve deeper without a second to spare or think. There was restraint in his actions, not daring to fill her entire mouth without a signal. It came as a caress of her tongue, small and gentle against his own, yet eliciting a strong reaction down his body. Carefully she moved, giving his tongue the same attention she would towards any other kiss, pressing as hard she could against him; there was no need to hold herself back, allowing Araceli to let go and be as rough as she wanted. A force on her that drove to press hard against him, 

Her body shuddered underneath him, a tight tug roaming over her clit like the pull of a bow. As she descended backwards, he followed like a moth to a flame. Heavily his hand fell onto her knee, then slid up her thigh. An understanding came over them, and her other leg fell over, foot landing on the floor to give him enough space. Together they laid: Araceli on her back and him looming over her with one hand on her thigh as the other held on the cushion’s edge for dear life. 

Odd, it felt odd, but not in a way that pushed her away. She had known it would be like this, not only in something as simple as a kiss, but once together as a whole -- everything they had ever done was akin to this. That did not deter her though, not like it may have months ago. Nerve wracking and a smidgen scary, the desire was just as, if not more stronger. Being overtaken by him sent a fiery shiver down her entire body, coiling tight in her core, tightening the bow of need further. When she felt him begin to pull away, Araceli moaned in protest, lifting her head to follow just as he had a moment ago. That did not stop him, and soon his tongue was swiping over her parted lips. 

She wanted him back with her, to experiment with this new aspect of their love together. The little sound had echoed through him, a ripple of heat crossing his skin like the goosebumps on her flesh. He had wanted this for so long, to pull such a delicate, private sound from her as they were flushed together. Far more enticing than his mind could ever imagine, Leatherhead felt guilty to pull away, but he did not want to smother her. Only for a second, a measly second so they both got their bearings -- her breath back, his mind unmuddled before he went too far. Lazily her eyes began to open and he stared at their unfocused gaze. Then his eyes roamed down to her lips once more (red from his kiss), and finally her chest that all but heaved as she caught air in her lungs; the low-hanging cut of her nightshirt teased him, revealing the gentle path between her breasts. What he wanted now was nothing dangerous, but if she did not like it, he would not force it on her afterwards. 

Araceli gasped, a stuttery little noise, but nothing more. Her head fell back, revealing more of her neck as his tongue made a coarse path between her clavicle and up her throat. A state of vulnerability she was unaware of and allowed him to see, to touch like so, yet her body was smarter and desperately tried to warn her. A panic rose in her chest, and she let loose another stuttery gasp. She thought it a pleasurable reaction, for her body still begged to be touched, and so she gave it little attention. Had she not felt the same before in her first year of dancing? The thrill before she did her first chaîné, her first set of changement, the multiple pirouettes and different positions all combined into one beautiful succession of moves? All these things she felt the need to run away from, but the end result kept her going. Even as fangs brushed over her revealed neck, the ballerina did not give in. For a second she feared  _ he  _ would, aware of his enhanced senses -- there was no lying, her heart was picking up for more than one reason, and fear was beginning to mix with the pleasure in her veins -- yet neither of them stopped .

She had every opportunity to push him away, tell him to stop, yet nothing came. Instead she allowed him to go on, pushing over the swirl of anxiety and fear that was without a doubt building. His tongue reached its destination at last, pressing back into her mouth that welcomed him once more, only this time her hands reached for him. Fingertips caressed the underside of his jaw, nails scratching over of his scales, while her other hand laid on his own that clenched the cushion. 

He could have stayed like that forever, kissing her in the only way he knew possible with his monstrous form. Admiration burned deep inside of him, thankful for her open-mindedness, so willing to test out the possibilities between them. For a second he remembered the past, how he had first attempted a kiss. Not as smoothly like now, but without that experience the same difficulties would have happened anyways. Except Araceli was nothing like Donatello. No, unlike the turtle she held back her instinct to push away. The purple-clad ninja was not one to turn away from a challenge, he was trained so well Leatherhead stood little chance against him, yet he had shoved the bigger mutant away. It took many attempts until Donnie could relax -- despite Leatherhead insisting they try again some other day -- and he was grateful for such a determined lover. Yet, with Araceli it was almost a breeze --  _ almost _ , because he knew her body was yelling otherwise as he pressed the tip of his tongue to the roof of her mouth. Another moan vibrated against his tongue and she tightened her lips, trapping him.

His hand roamed from her thigh, over her stomach, feeling it suck in and the human laugh a little. Her fingers caressed down his jawline and up over his long neck, digging her nails between his scales so he felt her touch better. Before he could snake more than the tip of his fingers under her nightshirt though, his nose caught something else coming closer. A spicy scent, mixed with a smoky draft. Distracted by the pleasure, it took a moment for him to recognize it as pepperoni and incense -- maybe cigarettes too.

Quickly he pulled away from her and Araceli gasped. Ready to protest, noises from the tunnels turned her head -- catching on. Together they readjusted themselves, sitting as normal as possible without looking suspicious. Soon two rowdy turtles were at their door, or what was akin to their porch at least with no door to open. A simple mat laid there for any mud or sludge tracking feet.

Michelangelo had the decency to knock on the nearest wall and greet them: “Hey, hey! I know it’s late, but I saw some suspicious people up above near the garage door." And he waltzed right in. " The security cameras went all staticy too.” 

They weren’t doing too good of a job looking inconspicuous, Araceli could see Raphael’s eyes squint even as he talked. “Yeah, we could use the help, LH”

“Of course my friends.” He rose from his spot, but not before grabbing his plate from the floor and going towards the sink. When Araceli grabbed his elbow he stopped dead in his tracks.

Taking the plate from him she smiled. “I’ve got the dishes, you go ahead and check it out.” And she stood up. “The quicker you guys get rid of any punks, the better everyone can sleep.”  _ especially you,  _ she did not say, but knew it was on all their minds.

“Thank you my love, I’ll be back as soon as possible.” 

“Hey, wanna do our dishes too?” Raph grinned.

“Yeah, while I’m at it I’ll fix up Mikey’s room too.”

At that the orange-clad turtle’s face lit up. “Really?”

“Shut up and haul some ass.” Araceli teased, placing a hand on her hip.

Watching them leave she shook her head. At least she had pulled Leatherhead’s nose from his intense work. Even better, they had begun something new. 

Not a bad night after all.

...but had it truly happened? Had he pulled her in for a kiss and all but choked her with his tongue -- wide, heavy, and overpowering not only in strength but feel. He had caused her mind to reel and her entire body to burn with arousal. Even now that he was gone, and the mood horribly interrupted, Araceli could not help the dopey smile overtaking her as she scrubbed down their plates. The memory of his heated body above her, his dark eyes that threaten to turn into slits. He was gentle with her as always, in a cute way for a few seconds as he made sure her comfort was secured. The desire to wrap her legs around him was there, but the kiss had occupied her mind -- unable to tell her body to do anything else but embrace him closer. She was ready to grind, to relieve the ache in her pulsating clit.

"Those damn cockblockers," she chuckled, still coming down from the adrenaline of almost being caught in such a risque position. 

Araceli wiped her pruney fingers on a nearby washcloth and leaned over the sink. 

She couldn't wipe away the grin from her face or the incredulous chuckle shaking her shoulders. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope ya'll are doing good in quarantine,   
> 
> 
> [ A bit of rambling on what to expect of the soon to come origins story of Araceli & Leatherhead. ](https://ryderofaliens.tumblr.com/post/190677546568/i-never-detailed-much-of-how-araceli-leatherhead)


	6. Chapter 6

Contrary to anyone’s belief, healing was not something that came easy. Being “cured” was not possible because there  _ was _ no “cure” in the first place. Their time together may have felt longer than it truly was, from shaky beginnings to loving touches, but that did not give them reason to claim Leatherhead was no longer having nightmares, nor Araceli her anxiety attacks. Neither of them were trained to help someone with their mental illnesses, no matter how close they may have been. For she was merely a dancer in the end, and he a recluse who had little contact with the few humans he knew. Talk all they might, try to emphasize as hard as they could, their respective minds would still hold on to those horrible memories -- those horrible thoughts that plagued them in the darkest of nights. 

Leatherhead was her priority, because her cracked confidence only reared its ugly head on performance days, when the lights were being positioned and her make-up covering only half her face; no less serious, but faster to soothe personally.  _ His _ snuck up whenever it pleased with little indication something might be brought to the forefront of his mind. It was not always a knife pointed towards him, only a few times had it been the buzzing of power tools, and the silence of night could be filled with his partner’s soft breathing instead of his running thoughts. Of it all though, her presence could be defeated by the unconscious mind when the nightmares could strike. And it never went unnoticed, small or not, because a being twice the average human size was  _ very  _ noticeable. 

In the beginning, Araceli would blink awake until the shifting became thrashing.  _ Now  _ she found herself shooting up the moment even the slightest of groans reached her ears. Dreams did not bring furrowed brows and tensing muscles. Groans of anguish were easy to perceive to any person, Araceli especially. On those nights, she looked to him with wide eyes filled with horror, and pain filling her heart. As much as she wanted to reach out, shake him awake, the ballerina knew better: his troubled mind could construe her touch as anything but her own, filled with tenderness. All she could do was call for him --  _ beg _ him -- to awaken while keeping a distance so his claws would not maim her, or his body crush her. 

A wonder how she could handle him at all, this thi he pondered in moments of deprecation. An angel who beckoned him to leave the demons of his past where they haunted him: in a dreamland of ridiculous proportions. Araceli did not run as growls escaped his large maw, or even as sharp ivories bared themselves in the dark -- shining white for enemies to beware. She stayed, loyal and brave, loving and worried, whether they were friends or lovers, she would stay...but also be prepared for the worst: to finally run as fast as her long legs could towards the turtles’ home. They could restrain him, help calm his boiling blood. 

For in the end she was only human, and her battles with other humans were nothing compared to a mutant predator; learning this truth hurt, left a bitter ache in her heart, but had to be accepted. So as she found herself near tears some nights ( afternoons or evenings or mornings), Araceli was ready to do what she could and must when eyes shot open and begun their search for the demon that was Bishop and his tools of torture. The duality of Leatherhead’s slivered eyes shocked her to the core, because though they set her blood aflame with excitement, they also ran it cold with fear. They burned with hatred, daring their beholder to try and cross him. And if she met that gaze, unknowing of Leatherhead and his torment _ \-- if  _ he were  _ human --  _ she would have recoiled. For those were the cruelest kind of eyes and far scarier than this monster’s who’s heart she knew to be gentle. 

Placating him with hands open, showing no weapon in their grasp, she would call for him once more. “It’s me, Leatherhead…..It’s Araceli, we’re in bed.”

And if that did not work within good time, she’d continue her attempts at bringing him out of his distressed mind with other techniques. Slowly hands would close in like one would do to touch a wild creature, wary of any indication of attacking. Hazel eyes stayed on yellow ones, glancing towards the rest of him at even intervals for the slightest tense or lax of muscle. A feral beast, laying on his side, fingers outstretched and claws digging into the plush pillow that once held his head. If he tore the pillow to spill it’s feathers, she pulled away; if his head lowered, she slowly continued. Time did not matter, the sleep was long gone from her to care about any she was missing. All that mattered was Leatherhead and stopping him from prowling out of their home where a turtle might mistake him for friendly, or worse -- as rare as it was -- venture above.

And when his maw fell into a frown, and recognition dawned over him, Leatherhead’s eyes would finally soften. No longer were yellow slits piercing her with animosity, what was left were a pair of dark irses, heavy with remorse. That was when hands finally pressed against his dense skin, caressed over his face, and traced each scale on his large bicep. Shame would shut his eyes, tears streaking down his cheeks, and he would raise his hand to cup her own, nuzzling into them like a security blanket. Only the dripping of old pipes echoed alongside his sobs in their underground home until she would finally speak up. 

“It’s okay, I’m here, it's just me and you.”

If he hated himself before, the moments after only fueled it farther. A mess in need of comfort -- of tenderness -- Leatherhead could not bring himself to accept any of it. He fought it, claiming he did not deserve such kindness. Verbally pushed it away, but his body told otherwise, seeking out her flesh, pressing himself into her small palms. A fight of need and worth always at odds within his heart. All her love could not stop his self-hatred, left to deny his own harsh words while she roamed all over his body. 

Not even now with their hearts bared to each other was it enough, and Araceli found she did not mind, because loving one’s self was harder than it sounded. Even when her performances were done and the applause roared in her ears, her mind could not help but whisper:  _ don’t forget you fucked up right there, and here. _ No one was a bigger critique than themselves. So she continued to bring solace to her partner, taking his head onto her lap, ghosting a finger over every crevice of his face and neck. She breathed loving words over his crown, promising him that everything would be fine, that he was safe here in their little nest they called home where their friends were ready to protect them. And he laid there with his head and shoulders turned so his fins would not hurt her soft body -- one claw in her free hand, twined together like a life-line from a sinking ship.

“How can you love a monster like me?” His eyes opened, red with hot tears.

Stroking down both cheeks, dangerously close to his protruding fangs, Araceli smiled. “Because I’m a freak.”

“You are no freak, my love.”

“Well, if you're a monster, then I am what I am. No take-backs.” 

That brought a weak chuckle from his throat -- vibrations flowing through her lap and into her chest. “Does not the monster turn into a prince with the love of a princess?”

“First off,” Her finger tapped his snout -- an endearing motion which pulled a small smile from him. “That’s  _ boring _ , who would want to lose the big, handsome monster?” 

The corners of his lips slowly raised higher.

“Secondly, I'm nowhere  _ near _ being a princess, a badass one or not. I’m just that bitch on the street you never wanna cross.”

“Perhaps then...you are a knight….my knight.”

And Araceli grinned -- wide and bright like the sun he knew her to be. “Yeah, that sounds good. I’m your knight, so those demons better beware.”

But those nightmares were not as common as one would think. No, because when they let him rest, the mutant was dreaming of  _ her _ .

Despite the darkness, Leatherhead knew he was upon a stage, in a theatre, where the murmurs of an audience echoed. Below him were figures, shrouded in shadows as they shifted in their seats and whispered words he could not comprehend. A full house where, despite the lack of light, he knew to be the focal point -- from the seats ahead, to the balconies above, it was a full house. And for a terrifying moment, Leatherhead believed it to be an Operating Theatre, where Bishop would come stage left. He would then be strapped onto a medical bed, tight chains keeping him from escaping even as a scalpel glinted in the dark... Yet panic did not set in, as though his body knew better than his mind. Finally, a resounding  _ BANG! _ Brought his attention upwards. A lone spotlight streamed down, but when it did not hit his eyes the mutant followed it’s path to the spot beside him.

There, in one of many ballet positions, was Araceli with her eyes set on the audience. Here they sparkled under the light, emphasized with thick liner and specks of what he could only describe as the dust of precious gems. He stared in awe at her lithe body, covered in a lavender tutu that held strong to her chest with no straps, leaving her shoulders and arms bare to shine under the spotlight. Lace detailed the torso, while gold trimmed the edges clinging to her breast and the dip between them. At last her hair was tight in a bun, and a tiara was snug atop her head. For a moment he wondered if he had ever seen her in the outfit, having admired her many others before and after performances -- because surely he could not come up with such attire out of thin air.

What he did know was the performance it was meant for: “ _ The Nutcracker” _ , for the tiara was the same she wore as The Sugarplum Fairy all those months ago -- when they had first begun talking. 

To prove his accuracy, the orchestra began with the wave of the maestro's conducting baton -- the sole indication they were present.

[ Araceli began, and like a fool Leatherhead’s gaze followed. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wz_f9B4pPtg) As she went forward, he leaned in as so, his back foot ready to lift up; when she twirled away and back the way she came, he was once again flowing with her. Lost in the way she glided along the stage, a leaf in the cool air of autumn . That was how it was, his dark eyes looking from her pointed steps that were as quick as a dragon fly’s wings and sharper than a knife’s point. 

There was no one there but them in those moments, their audience deadly silent as they too followed the ballerina’s steps. Without them in his head, their shadowed eyes nothing more than glances, the stage filled with one he and his beloved, Leatherhea took a step forward. Then his neck twisted to the seats, and once more he became hyper aware of millions of eyes on him. Suddenly he was aware they even had  _ eyes _ ; the whites of them burning bright with tiny pupils cutting deep in his skin. All at once they snapped to Araceli who paid them no mind as she danced away.

Her arms lifted into the air, creating perfect arches and extending out gently in parallel to her skirt. A stark contrast to him, whose steps echoed in a clatter against the orchestra’s song. It was with a single thought that he had begun to pursue her with his lumbering form:  _ “She is vulnerable, and they are ravenous. _ ” But in a dream little made sense, not even a simple step forward, nor the power behind it. This was what it felt like to swim in caramel -- the most common phenomenon of dreaming. No matter how hard he surged his body forward, Leatherhead found himself three steps behind her. Pitiful was how he looked, helpless was how he felt. A monster chasing after the beauty who danced under the spotlight like the fairy she was playing. How cliche….

His arms stretched towards her, a deep-set need to catch her -- curling his claws as if to cup her. To protect from an unknown enemy. When he thought his hands might grab hold, Araceli pulled away with ease. She laid her eyes on him, flashing a soft grin. When he finally was almost flushed to her, the ballerina bent forward and left him there alone with backward steps. Was she playing with him? Another move in their game of desires? Every movement was like water, smooth and precise, long and cooling. The spotlight held on to her, the only illumination in the dark theatre. Or what  _ was _ a theatre, now turned to inky shadows and nothing more.

No eyes bore in them, only the darkness surrounding them and light illuminating  _ her _ .

In this new environment Araceli was open to move wherever she pleased, which was obviously away from him. When her feet silently pressed down, a ripple vibrated like a stone bouncing off a lake -- the floor no longer existing, only the latter being an indication they  _ were _ standing somewhere. His brought larger wavelets that fell under her’s, the two creating dual patterns as they went on their way. It felt like an eternity of this game of chase, her dance, his trailing. 

At last he was catching up, for once she stopped to lift her arms in a flowing twirl he found himself near her -- a soft brush of his fingertips over her sides, careful not to touch her swaying skirt. Then, the melody cascaded downward in a succession, and her feet followed with a flurry of pointe steps backwards. He followed once more, but only  _ one _ step behind. When he thought he could pull her into his arms, she began again, slipping from his grasp and dancing away to the otherside. And again, like a fool, he followed. He followed because his life depended on it; her life depended on it. The desire to chase came from deep within, to win the game and have what he wanted; her eyes flickered towards him each time, daring him to continue, alight with playfulness. She spurred him on and he took the bait. Only them in the darkness that was once a theatre with glowering eyes.

When she stopped so did he, only because she faced him. A leg and foot extended before her and her neck lifted so smooth skin went taut. She smiled up towards nothing, then gently turned her mischievous smile towards him -- the light weakened, but streaked across her eyes, emphasizing them in a delicious manner. Awestruck he stayed, unsure of what to do next, only that she was horrible -- a tease he ached to hold and protect. The music ceased, leaving them in limbo until she broke the trance. With a frenzied twist of her upper body, Araceli began an arrangement of quick little twirls. She bounced on her toes, skipped along to the orchestra that escalated, all the while dancing in a perfect circle around him. In the middle, ensnared in front then behind the ballerina’s graceful positions as she pulled her arms in and out like a flower in full bloom, Leatherhead could only admire her work. 

It came to him that she had changed her body language, for in the beginning she was loose, flying across him in grand gestures while keeping steady; now her limbs closed in tight, and her back was far more erect than before. At all times, though, Araceli was a single line of action, flowing from the tips of her manicured fingers, to the bottom of the box under her toes. And then he remembered her words all that time ago, when he would glare at the top of her head, and she would pull her arms tight across her chest in annoyance.

_ “You are the queen or Claire, but they can’t be danced in the same way. She is regal, or she is naive, either way there is one thing that truly affects your body: is she in love, or not?” _

Finally, the music began its fall into the finale, and she took her final group of turns, landing perfectly on the last note with a bend at her waist and arms spread out. Together they stared, her body facing him while her face turned up so hazel met dark. Towering over her, the mutant could see the sleek fall of her back, leading his tights up to her gleaming gaze looking up from below; in a quick flash he saw her on the floor, gripping her ankle after the nasty fall, and her grateful expression as he came to her aid. Was it disgusting of him to enjoy the position where he could look over her entire body. Under his shadow she might as well have been in his arms, and the way her cheeks turned red under tawny skin, grinning like  _ she  _ had won. In every way he was under her thumb as she was with his shadow. Two equal forces pulling each other on a tight string. He presented her with his hand, turning it so his fingers curled in in his palm. But when she lifted her own to be held, he felt an unnatural hot breeze wash over them. As though her hand held the sun in its palm, the same heat radiated off her skin. She pressed it into his grasp and Leatherhead felt a striking shiver rattle his entire frame. 

Without warning the murmuring audience came back, bodiless voices that jeered and laughed. He knew they were directed at them -- he knew  _ this _ was Araceli’s fears. She jumped into his arms, hot like a heater, as though  _ she  _ was one  _ fire _ . The warmth echoed into him, skin glistening with sweat, liquid heat pooling down between his heavy thighs and into his core. She fit perfectly against him, hiding her face into his chest away from the mocking voices. He wrapped himself around her, burying her into his arms so the only sound she heard was the beating of his heart...then his own fears began to mix in. The revving of a saw, a red light tinting the single beam of light on them, but most of all a chuckle. Low and filled with sadistic glee. 

He ignored it, all of it, lowering his head to inhale his lover’s sweet scent. Her nails dug into him, grounding the large mutant to her. Two beings haunted by their fears, their pasts, huddled together for safety and comfort. None of it mattered, especially once her face lifted up and his own backed away to give her space. She reached a hand up, scratching down his jaw, tugging him down so their lips touched. She opened herself to him, taking what he presented to her. It became silent, only the satisfied sigh from her reaching his senses. 

The flames rose, surrounding them, curling between them. He pulled her hips closer, fitting between his own, and she replied with a surge forward, deeper into his kiss.

And Leatherhead woke up, hot and sweaty and bothered. The single sheet that messily laid over him stuck to his clammy flesh, tight and uncomfortable. A shift beside him brought his attention to Araceli, laying sprawled on her stomach and head turned towards him. Her eyes lazily looked to him, most likely bleary with sleep, but that did not ease the worries in his head. Quickly he checked over his hips and between them, relieved to see his covers laid loose and airy over his arousal. 

“You okay, babe?” 

He turned back to her, hoping for all that was good that his eyes were not wide, or his hammering heart was as loud as he perceived it. “Yes...just an odd dream.”

“You need a hug --” “No!” 

He interrupted, not daring to give her any chance to come nearer to him. How embarrassing, despite what had transpired between them lately, he had no desire to make things awkward….though it felt too late now. Fortunately she only smiled, a sliver of her teeth showing under her plump lips, and her hazel gaze crinkling at the ends. All the love she had for him felt as though it were in that face, pressing into a pillow and covered by messy bangs.

“Suit yourself, big guy, but I’m all warm and cuddly right now.” She enticed him.

He kept his ground, even as his body and soul demanded he scoot closer, descend slowly down to lay beside her, and pull against his chest. Leatherhead pushed the thought away best he could, then laid back down on his side so they were face to face. He smiled, wary of her smoldering eyes beckoning him closer. With little thought to it, his lower arm pushed towards her, the back of his hand sliding against the mattress and to the soft face only inches away. The back of his large fingers caressed the bridge of her nose, sliding down it’s slope then back up. His lower fingers brushed over the bow of her lips, then turned so they touched her lower cheek. 

Araceli grinned then and used her nearest hand to cup his. She tilted her chin up, disrupting his movements, gently puckering her lips against him. She laid a kiss on each of his fingers, atop each sharp claw. Her head turned and his hand was urged to turn in the same so it was easier to reach each digit. Dumbstruck he did as she wanted -- lost in the sensation of her full, silky lips on his hardened, green flesh. She repeated the action once more, all the while his mind tried to comprehend what she was doing. 

How could she so easily touch the most dangerous part of him. His claws that tore so many creatures limb to limb. His maw where rows of dagger-sharp teeth laid dormant until his next prey. There she was, sensually kissing the very characteristic that made him a cruel beast; the part of him she had once flinched and cowered from. She stopped on his middle finger, staring up at him with those same eyes from his dream -- daring him to do something. Daring him to go forward and give her a taste of her own medicine. He did not play into it, only laid there and cherished the moment, until she laid his palm back down, turned her face, and took a bite at his finger. His shoulders hunched up and a curt growl naturally came from his chest -- vibrating against the bed and into her. Not a terribly hard bite, but it was enough for him to  _ feel _ with her blunt, human teeth. That meant it was hard on her end, pulling her teeth together with more force than she would have for another person without leathery skin and scales. 

She laughed loud and gleefully, obviously not expecting him to truly feel it. Her entire face fell into his palm and she continued to laugh into his hand -- turning only so one eye peeked up at him.

And he joined her merriment -- heedful of the throbbing between his thighs.

* * *

Araceli glared at him, sharp eyebrows pressed so far down between her eyes there did not seem to be space between them. A snarl curled her lips to one side, revealing her grinding teeth for all to see. Every sinewy muscle in her body was tight, so tight she practically  _ shook _ from the force. She was ready to pounce and trap the source of her anger when red blinded her sight, blood rushing loudly to her head and screaming for her to raise a fist then connect to his face; the memories of past fights where knuckles met flesh reminding her of what an amazing sensation it was. Were it not for her career -- the performance only two weeks away -- she would have  _ broken his damned teeth _ . Watched them fall to the floor and paint her hands red. God she hoped he would cry, that would be the cherry on top to destroying his nasty little masculinity. She reasoned it was that toxic mindset that made him suck a jackass, but that never felt like a satisfying reason. He didn’t deserve her pity or kindness.

Not after that fall.

“You still mad, Celia?” Anton wiped the sweat off his forehead -- a towel set on his shoulders.

She continued to glare.

“Come on, it was an  _ accident _ , I didn’t mean to trip you.” 

The grin on his face told her otherwise despite it being as apologetic as he could muster, which was little. 

“It wouldn’t have happened if you’d take shit  _ seriously _ .” She spat back with a wave of her head with each word.

He laughed as he pulled off the towel and dropped it onto his open duffel. And Araceli gave a jerk forward, ready to stand and get in his face. He did not notice, crouching down to shove everything in his bag, then pulling out his track jacket. He slid it on and she wrinkled her eyes and nose; did he not believe in the power of deodorant? Of wiping his pits clean? It was one of the vital rules their studio demanded: keep yourself hygienic. 

“Listen, when you become a principal dancer, you’ve pretty much shown how great you are. I don’t need to practice this much when I have  _ skill _ .”

And as much as she wanted to scream that he had no skill, the ballerina could not, because he  _ did  _ have it. He was elegant and stable on the stage, bringing forth thousands of eyes and applause at the end of each performance. He never wavered or wobbled with each flourish, nor did he ever forget his footwork. Becoming a Principal dancer was not given to any dancer, but it sure as hell was given to any person. Personality was hideable -- ignorable -- to obtain the role, and that was the downfall of her career. They let unsavory characters like  _ him  _ rise in ranks, yet ignored the likes of Jazmyne who worked her ass off. It all made Araceli rethink her choice of staying safe as a Coryphee, where she kept in the background and called upon when an additional front runner was needed. She could ask for an audition as Soloist, perhaps principal if they were still open to her, and shove it in his face...but she did not want that -- the role held too much responsibility.

Thus she kept silent, burning holes in the other dancer as he pulled the duffel over one shoulder. When he turned his head to the door opening, Araceli kept her eyes steady. 

“Hey Rye!” 

“Evening Anton, get in some good practice?”

She could feel her friend glancing at her, hiding his concern with a casual smile from the corner of her eyes.

“Yeah, me and Celia are looking spot on for Giselle and Albrecht. Better watch out, peasant-boy.” And Anton walked to the door, only stopping to give Riley a wink. 

It could have been meaningless, a simple gesture between two people, but Araceli knew better. She could recognize it from the frat boys at their little freshmen get-togethers at bars. She  _ knew  _ it from hormonal highschool boys, seniors no less, who threw it around their little group as they ogled their surroundings. A simple action, with so much held within it, so many meanings, all left indecipherable if used tactfully. With all her experience Araceli could understand, realize why Anton snickered as he did it and raised his brows. It’s the same way he did when eyeing Carmen who left the company after they broke up; Miranda who joins Araceli in shooting dirty looks at him; and sweet Karen, who becomes small when he is within five feet of her (why she prefers to do her warms ups and practice beside Araceli and Jazmyne). 

_ “I’m a target….and I’m not the only one.” _ She grasped, and two more faces flashed before her eyes -- a list of three, including herself who are still in the company and yet to get close to him.

Just before passing the door-frame, the Albrecht to her Giselle makes a passing comment: “Keep an eye on Celia in practice, she’s feeling a bit clumsy today.”

Araceli pounced -- on her knees she lunged to slam her palms to the polished wood floor. A push forward and she’s scrambling to her feet in record time, like a cheetah ready to give chase. Heavy steps echo in the studio, but Anton is long gone before then, and at once they stop. Riley is there to throw his shoulder in front of her warpath, wrapping a strong arm around her waist to keep her in place. He’s strong, even with adrenaline pounding down her veins and body thrashing, Riley holds her back -- even  _ up _ , her feet scarcely touching the floor now as she bends over his arm. 

“I’M GONNA -- !” She grunts against his shoulder, barely able to contain her screams if only for the meaty body she fights against.

“I know Ari, I know.” 

It becomes apparent he too is holding back. His voice is held low, like he is speaking through clenched teeth. Looking up, she finds that to be true, and his face is tight with anger. He isn’t looking at anything in particular, but she recognizes his focus is straight-on. He wants exactly what she does, but his control is far greater in the current situation. Embarrassment washes over her, the shame of relapsing into a fit of cruel anger cooling her down. The days of fighting are over, left behind to fits of brattiness on elementary school playgrounds, middle school cafeterias over seats, and open highschool grounds where the slightest dirty look set her off. She’s grown from those angry days because of ballet. To think she could calm Leatherhead when she could not even calm herself. Araceli goes limp in every way, allowing the tears to fall freely from her eyes -- ruining her eyeliner and mascara.

_ “It’s okay to cry.” _ The baritone voice soothes through her mind, encouraging her to be open.

It is not unlike Leatherhead’s thick arms, the way Riley holds her...He’s a head taller than her, thus a head closer to the mutant’s own height. He’s in some ways a miniature version of her partner; dare she say it: a _human_ _sized_ version of him. So it comes a bit easier to let her guard down with Riley, but only _a bit_ , because he _isn’t_ Leatherhead. If she were with the latter, Araceli would sob louder, press her lips against his bare skin, _dig_ her blunt nails in desperate need into his scales as she let herself be lost. They would still be embracing if she was with Leatherhead.

“Thank you for being here.” She hiccups and sniffles, pulling away so they are arms length -- both her hands on his shoulders. Looking up to him with watery eyes, Araceli finds a smile lighting up her face. 

Riley’s eyes are rolling back in his skull in a comical way, easing her with laughter. “What an asshole, guys like him need to get socked.”

“Hard enough to knock his lights out.” She chuckles, bringing her a finger to wipe away her tears and running make-up. Together they smile and continue to laugh.

“The moment I got your text I booked it here on my bike. Sorry you had to last that long with him.”

“It was going so well, but then he started his bullshit out of nowhere.” 

His hands raise to gently lay on her wrists. “What did he mean by ‘clumsy’? You’re never clumsy, even when you zone out.”

That’s right, it’s been noticeable lately when her mind wanders to Leatherhead. Her body is well-trained from nearly two decades of dancing, it knows how to handle itself. Araceli drops her hands and shakes her head. Turning around to grab her water container, the ballerina feels the exhaustion in her bones finally hit.

“He tripped me -- on accident, but nonetheless it happened. Was acting dumb with me and he got careless.” He even had the audacity to laugh when she hit the ground. Any other person she would have laughed as well, but not him, who annoys her to no end and causes problems for his enjoyment. 

“Does it hurt anywhere? Want me to check for -- “

“No, no, I already did.” She raised a hand as Riley took one stride over and was almost chest to chest with her. With her water handle limp in one hand, Araceli pressed her forehead against his sternum.

“I’m so tired.” 

“Wanna call it a day?”

“No, no, you made the trip here and I could use more practice for the finale.” Pulling away she dragged herself towards her duffel. Crouching she rummaged inside to produce a compact mirror and a small make-up bag.

“Some Hilarion scenes could use some work too. You said you’ve played him before?”

“Yeah, but go take a break -- I need to warm up anyways.” And he sat on the floor, slipping off his sandals and reaching for his duffel next to him. 

Gratefully Araceli nodded, reaching once more in her bag for her cellphone, then walking out the room. Down the hall are the lockers and bathrooms where she changes sometimes, but mostly grabs her newest pair of pointe shoes when shipments come in. Before she takes more than five steps though, she scouts the area where a four-way division also leads to the front doors and medical rooms. There’s no sign of Anton, no sound of his music blaring through earbuds, or footsteps unless they are her own; it’s lunch for most, but she’d rather practice through it. Taking a deep breath, she continued onward.

Stress laid heavy on her shoulders, and the tight string of anxiety teetered. In the silence her mind doesn’t shut up, causing her footsteps to quicken -- little steps in a rushed fashion. Her foul mood did not help either, sucking all her motivation to continue for the day.

_ I’ve done so much already, I can call it quits now _ , she reasoned, stopping at the large doors. She could go home to Leatherhead, lay her head in his lap, and drift asleep to the sound of their television as he watches something. It sounded so good, the urge to hurry back to Riley and tell him she changed her mind has her take a step backwards. But then another voice entered her mind, and guilt began to settle.

_ “You don’t give it your all, don’t do it at all!” _ Screams her coach. Suddenly she’s back at her old studio, and mister Ergone is patting her ankle, urging her to raise it higher and higher until it is at an angle only a dancer can reach.

Then another voice came to her, and the walls became grey concrete covered in spray-paint.  _ “Sometimes you have to negotiate with yourself: work and do this after, or don’t work and do nothing after. Discipline is a warrior’s best tool.” _ Leo balanced perfectly above her on a wooden pole. He is like a Greek sculpture, all muscle and fluid curves as he stands there in peace. A pillar of strength.

Pressing her palm against one door, Araceli walked into the locker room. It's properly called a “dressing room”, but the studio was once a ginormous gym before being sold and renovated for a ballet company, and thus many in her group call it as it was before the change. Once seated on a bench, she looks to her phone, finding her thoughts become an audible whisper.

“If I stay and continue, I can...grab some Starbucks….I can grab some fast food…..I’ll go home and take a bubble bath….I’ll…..stay up late with LH and watch a movie….and eat cookie dough and frosting with him…..We’ll…..oh…...Hmmm….” 

An ache flashed in her core, tightening worse then the stress and anxiety was. Instinctively she squeezed her thighs, a jolt of exciting pleasure curling into a ball up her swelling sex. Had it only been days since she had been under him, being filled to the brim with his kiss on her lips that had been so red and hot after A constant reminder the day after that she would soon be swallowed whole, engulfed entirely in his love that continued to show no end. Fuck, then not long before she had the  _ gall _ to send him a taste of what would come -- of what she looked forward to sharing with him. Embarrassing yet exhilarating, a sensation she had never felt so intensely with her previous partners. Something new, but known, which had her stumbling through what usually came easy; partners and lovers came and went, that was common for many, and she knew the dance confidently….until now. Perhaps she did something alien this time around...maybe it was the fact that their relationship had begun so differently than the others.

Her intentions had been dropped quickly, there was no plan to pursue him romantically after all that happened between them in the beginning, until it snuck up on her -- on them. After years of spotting someone and going in for the game of dating, romancing, and loving, to suddenly have it hit her hard out of the blue was startling; not even when she was the target of courting did she ever feel so off the usual path. 

And ridiculously, in the most hilarious way, Araceli thought of fairy tales.

Stifling a laugh, she spotted her face in the reflection in someone’s mirror hanging off one of the little square lockers. Her mascara had stained her cheeks but her foundation still looked smooth. She grabbed her phone, quickly dialing his number and balanced it between shoulder and ear. As it rang she took up her makeup bag and pulled out a travel size bottle of foundation. 

Deep and tender was his voice, a soft tone washing over her once tight muscles. “Hello my love, how are you?”

The moment he spoke she had stopped what she was doing, leaving a make-up sponge in hand as the bottle hovered over. Her eyes closed, picturing him beside her. “Could be a lot better.”

“What happened?” His voice dipped into a rigid threat. She knew little had to be said or explained, because he knew who had been with her since leaving the sewers that morning. He knew without her even saying another word that the bane of her patience was at fault and his target. 

“It’s all okay now, Riley stopped me from beating ass, and I had a little cry with him.” 

Silence. A sigh of...relief? 

“Good, I am glad you have a friend like him.” She could hear the smile in his voice, definitely relieved. 

She giggled and absently began to blot away the dark streaks from her cheeks. “Me too, we’re gonna practice for a bit, then I’ll come home.”

“I can’t wait to see you.” Blistering in silky tones, overwhelming her with a desire to melt on the spot, he spoke straight into her and into her already swelling core. “Tell me what you feel like indulging in and I will make it for you. A sundae? Cookie dough?”

Bastard, was he purposefully unraveling her? Did he too have plans to start something? It didn’t matter, she was set on what she wanted.

“Actually. I’m not in the mood for a sugary treat” She patted and smoothed the foundation so it blended over her cheeks.

“Not even a pizza?” He chuckled and she swore she felt it rumble through her own body.

“No, I was thinking something a little  _ different _ .” Two could play at the voice game. Husky, telling of the smirk curling over her lips that she saw needed a fresh coat of color. She dropped the travel sized bottle of foundation in her bag, then pulled out a dark tube of lipstick, a nude color pushing up.

He cleared his throat; “Oh? What did you have in mind.”

And she grinned.

* * *

She had texted him that she would arrive late and to lay in bed without her. Obviously she was going to her apartment to prepare for their plans, which only made the anxiety flare in his gut. Like a flock of butterflies in an empty hollow, his face began to burn with the thought of what may come. When the realization hit, Leatherhead was left staring at his phone and it’s modified size, the text left open as if he could dissect its meaning -- her intentions. But Araceli was a ‘wildcard’, doing as she pleased, when she pleased, and  _ how _ she pleased. Like himself and Raphael, she had a bit of a temper that she admitted to have spent years cooling down. Mix that with her self-assured attitude and the human was not one to obey orders from anyone.  _ With _ that, Leatherhead was left twiddling his thumbs in anticipation.

When the clock struck twelve at night the mutant parted the curtains encircling his bed and laid down. The former were for further privacy despite the only other inhabitants nearby being friends, but nowadays he could appreciate the aesthetics of it, as if he were sleeping in a canopy bed. Or perhaps it was akin to a canopy ‘nest’, though Leatherhead was not one to use what he considered an ‘archaic’ term. An array of beds, covers, and pillows, all of which brought him great comfort and security, the addition of a partner only made it better -- closer to that beastly term. Embarrassingly he found himself arranging the pillows more so on her side, fluffing them up, then pulling her favorite blanket alongside a few others to neatly lay over one another. One look over his work, he found himself taking the pillows again and creating a barrier around the spot Araceli laid her head (detectable by the smell of cinnamon and vanilla). Now he laid there, propped on his side by one elbow, staring at the spot.

_ “This is not a nest; this a bed. And I want to make it comfortable for my  _ **_girlfriend_ ** _ , and that’s only polite.”  _

And as if summoning her, Araceli was there, snapping his head to the entryway where her fresh scent flowed. She had showered at the apartment, bringing the fruit smell of her hair products to join the usual that was her body wash. Behind the curtains her silhouette pranced about, tossing her duffel towards the entryway wall so it was not in the way.

“I’m home!” She called with a musical voice; was she singing on her way back? Her mood must have been great if so, for she scarcely did it otherwise. Her voice was not meant for singing and she knew it, but Leatherhead did not care. If she wanted to croon out like a bird, he did not mind.

“Welcome back.” He lowered himself back to lying on his side, bringing the backside of his lower arm up as a pillow, and the other to fold above it. Like this he could eye her body twirling and skipping about their home. He watched and listened as her zipper lowered and she removed her jacket, revealing the subtle curves of her lithe body, then as she...well, he could not say, unable to decipher what she was grabbing. Instead, the mutant’s gaze followed her every movement, the way her long legs and round calves carried her.

“I broke a nasty sweat while practicing -- felt super good.”

“I assumed so since you smell showered.”

“Good, I was afraid the subway odor might cover it -- ha!”

Her shape was delicate, with no outstanding exaggerations one would see in ads or movies and shows. Only the muscles in her upper arms and legs were what separated from many, trained to fit the job of Ballerina. It was in different sitting positions or angles that favored her body, creating an image worthy of any magazine. He wondered if anyone else had caught those flattering scenes, where her thighs looked the most plush, her eyes glistened under the lights, or her chest appeared its softest.

“How’d your day go?”

“Read mostly,, then after we hung up I met Raphael to ‘ hang out’.”

“My two favorite men just chillin’, wish I could have joined.”

It was enough for him, who held no standard in what he wanted in appearances. His favorite physical attribute of her’s were her lips anyways: full, round, and with her incessant pout. He always thought of them, of how they pulled his gaze and body to touch-- to  _ take _ .

“I thought Michelangelo was your favorite turtle.”

She stopped short of their bed, and Leatherhead watched her bring out her phone and what he identified as her chapstick. The cherry aroma was unmistakable, twisting up to press against her lips as she turned her head. In her other hand laid the cellphone, checking it as she applied the fruity moisturizer like it was the most casual set of actions to do….and it was! Just not to him, who felt a growl threaten to spill, knowing he would pounce on her lips the moment he had a chance. He’d cup her cheeks in his upturned palm, squeeze them to pucker, and lick them clean of their artificial coating.

With a pop of her lips, Araceli capped the little tube, locked her phone, and reached the curtains. The tension was killing him, watching as she bent to the side to lay down not only her chapstick, but something else he somehow failed to see. Then her hand cut between the slivered opening, and she stood up to take a step forward. Stepping in, she parted the drapery, revealing herself to his dark eyes. He didn’t wonder about what she had done while away at her apartment. All he assumed was it’s purpose: to make their night even more magical. Why had he not realized his lover would go an extra mile to leave him in awe -- she did it all the time! Now he was left looking the part of fool with wide eyes and his mouth parted gently, unable to look away, but he could not fathom why he’d want to do that.

For there stood Araceli in all her glory, wearing skin revealing lingerie just for him. A one-pie of lace, pale-pink in color, and tight from top to bottom. The bodice was held up by thin straps, keeping the padded cups in place over her normally flat chest. The intricate pattern of lace followed their shape, then dipped down the middle of her torso, yet the thin material underneath still left many parts to his imagination -- or what was left of it. He had seen her bare stomach before, but for the most frustrating reason he could not see it in full now when it mattered the most. That it covered what lay between her thighs was understandable, especially with how skinny that part of material was quite thin, hugging her shape to the point of bunching upward between her slit. There he knew what she looked like, but that had been a mere flash -- part of the biggest teasing she had done so far -- and he wanted to stick every part of it to memory. She stood there, looking down on him with a smirk that quite literally curled her lips, and he knew she was feeling triumph.

“He and Raph compete in my heart for favorites, but don’t tell either of them.” She winked. Passing the threshold of curtain to bed, she pulled her arms behind her back to tug them closed. With no other step, she deliberately lowered herself to her knees, pressing them on the mattress where her spot laid. Her hazel eyes never left his, even as she gave her head a playful tilt.

“Anyways, it doesn't really matter when  _ you’re _ my favorite mutant.”

Leatherhead made a move to get up, pushing up from his arm and onto his elbow, but thin fingers raised to stop him. Confused, he watched the human’s eyes crinkle up in what was a smile meant for  _ only _ him, and her other arm and torso twisted back to grab something behind the curtain. A capsule shaped speaker was set between then, which earned his hard work of arranging her side of the bed notice. Araceli seemed dumbstruck, looking with a curious glint in her eyes at the mound of pillows circling her head space, then turning her face to the blankets neatly spread atop one another.

She chuckled, looking to him before reaching back once more for whatever else she had brought. “You prepared my side of the bed?”

“Well...yes -- I was feeling….anxious.” He sheepishly smiled back.

“You’re the best, LH.” And she brought out three little plastic candles. “I hope you keep doing that in the future, because we’re gonna be having long nights.” 

A shiver ran over his thick hide and scales. The absolute minx, she knew exactly what she was doing and he stood no chance. Images flashed before his eyes, old dreams running wild, while lucid memories made them realistic. Already she had been under his form, many times had he seen her show off her flexible skill in agile dances, and once had he heard and watched her body writhe in pleasure. Tonight was not going that far, but it would be enough to add to his memories and prepare him for whatever came next -- for whatever she asked of him. He must have looked dumb as his mind raced, her eyes still looking to him with such mirth it stirred his heart. Quickly he turned his attention to what she was doing: flipping a switch on each fake candle to turn them on. They glowed in the dim sewer, illuminating her skin a red and orange hue, showing off the sunnier shade of her pale-brown skin. It brought back the craving to see her under the true sun, where her complexion would be a glowing shade. She aligned them in equal distances around his own handy work of pillows.

She was preparing their bed as well, and he grinned with her.

“Just setting the mood, don’t mind me.” Her voice was a tad shaky, as if she were embarrassed. 

He raised a hand and used the back of one finger to caress her bare shoulder -- silky and chilled. “That you would take the time to make our time together all the more precious….I love you, Sunshine.” 

Not only did her cheek turn scarlet, but the bottoms of her ears, down her neck, and over the very shoulder he was caressing. She turned her attention to the portable speaker, clicking the button to set up the bluetooth in hopes it would calm her boiling blood.

“I love you too, Leatherhead...I’m just so excited, but also nervous.” Her shoulders shook in a silent chuckle.

“And that is understandable. I am too, but it is normal.” Hazel eyes did not meet his, continuing to busy herself by grabbing her phone and bringing up a music app to scroll through. Her thumb hovered a title -- a playlist.

Finally their gazes met, leaving him speechless, not only because he realized the playlist read  _ ‘Sol De Corazon’ _ , but her face held nothing but devotion. Wide and faintly lit by the fake candles under them, Araceli looked the most vulnerable he had ever seen her. No rampant anxiety causing her to wilt, no try at holding back her emotion, just pure adoration and love. He could not help but remove his hand from her shoulder, delicately curling his palm around her closest cheek instead. In response she pressed into it, perhaps unaware that her eyelids had fallen into a lost gaze sent his way. There was no need to tug her upwards, together they leaned in to meet halfway, and when he felt her breath on his snout, music began to play. Her finger falling onto the ‘shuffle’ button did not stop them from meeting for a kiss.

Plump lips parted, but not enough for him to capture. If she wanted him to work for it, so be it, he would enjoy it either way. He had wanted to taste her chapstick anyways, carefully using the tip of his tongue to follow the middle of her lips -- right between her cupid’s bow. One stripe upward, and her lips parted more. Her small tongue peaked out to shyly follow his, but she only gave a small lift of her chin. Tilted up, the moment was perfect to urge her further open. The thrill of softly tasting her flesh tinted with cherry -- artificial as it may be -- flourished through him, curling in the pit of his stomach. Watching her hooded gaze cement itself onto his own, Leatherhead flicked the small part of his tongue against her’s. Without hesitation the human pressed forward, opening her mouth wide to take what she could of his own. 

He kept still to allow her time, becoming accustomed once more to the shape of his mouth, remembering where his sharp ivories laid to better avoid them. She was fierce in her kiss, pressing down with all her might to leave her mark on his larger shape. And it worked, causing him to hiss as she nipped at him, a sting echoing through his mouth. The ache came, but not only between his lips, but further below. That thrill from before uncurled itself and dropped to his growing erection. The moment he had seen her behind the curtain, anticipation began to boil to snap at his core. When she revealed her scantily clad body, the tightness had begun to pull. And now, as she roamed her soft mouth over his own, pouty lips puckering on his hard flesh, small sparks began to hit the hilt of his hardening cock. Growing stronger and stronger, to the point that he could not sit still any longer. 

Slipping his hand down her cheek and under her chin, the mutant captured it and her other cheek in his open palm, squeezing her cheeks enough to squish her lips together. A small moan reverberated down her throat and against his hand. A moan that  _ he  _ had brought forth with  _ his  _ actions. Pulling away, he growled, feeling the tightness behind his skull now. She gasped, not from fear, but shock; she was dazed, still lost under the haze of arousal, and he took the time to commit the expression to memory. Her heavy eyes, her red cheeks, the way her chest heaved in need of air her kiss had taken. 

“Kiss me.” She uttered in a hushed voice. 

And who was he to deny her what she desired. With a smidgen more force than he meant, Leatherhead slid his tongue between her lips. Her nimble own pressed against it, enticing him to dominate her, bruise and burn her mouth like their first time. There had been a few other kisses, little ones that were akin to smooches, and those had all led up to this. Another press together that would leave him breathless and liplocked. He had wondered if she minded how red he left her lips, because she never brought it up. She looked so pleased back then, and despite the initial horror of what he had done -- fearful he had hurt her beyond apologies -- deep down he had enjoyed it. Everyone would question her bruised mouth, wonder themselves who she allowed to kiss her so hard it left her sore. She was not pulling away now, no attempt to stop him, so maybe she had truly enjoyed it. She was definitely enjoying it now. He continued onwards, Both pressing forward as close as possible for lip contact, tilting their heads in opposite directions for better access and leverage. 

When she did raise both hands to push him she did not need to do so for long. He pulled away, but only a hair’s breadth so they gasped for breath upon one another. She swallowed hard, the shape of it creating a hard bulge down her throat, and her eyes lazily looked around. Her muddled mind was beginning to clear, her entire face and mind ablaze -- the usual tight pull playing over her clenching core deep between her thighs. He could see the flex of her thighs as she squeezed both of them together, creating friction to ease her neediness. A triumphant flutter echoed through his heart: he was the cause of this lust, this happiness. When her glossy eyes looked up to him, those tender lips pulled back in a silly little smile, flashing a sliver of her teeth.

“Let’s start.”

Slowly he lowered himself back down. Their eye contact did not break, her face following his body as he lifted his lower arm. Using it as a pillow like before, he awaited her next move in the thick air where tension hung. A heavy heat laid between them, a warm blanket in the concrete sewers. Her hand raised to wipe her brow, shining gently with sweat; was she coming too far out of fog of lust? He wanted to encourage her, remind her of what they had discussed over the phone, only so she would not feel anxious. Stopping was fine too, he was about to ask if she wanted to, but her hand slid up into her hair. Clenching long, dark-locks, Araceli’s other hand rose to brush her fingertips over her clavicle. Idly they slid over, then down, between the wide valley of her breast, then lower over her ribcage where she stopped, eyes looking over his face. 

Glued to her simple movements, there was a silent moment where Leatherhead was unaware she was staring at  _ him. _ Despite stopping, he was entranced, but lifted his gaze out of curiosity. Once more their eyes met, and he wondered how he must have looked, because she absolutely appeared lascivious with her flushed cheeks and loose hair. She let her eyes close, taking a deep breath, and he waited once more for her to take as long as she needed.

The music flowed, distracting her mind from unwanted thoughts, the self-doubt and consciousness that made it difficult to please herself. His sharp gaze did little to help (piercing through her very soul), but at the same time urged her on (the hunger in them heating her blood). Feeling the current song fill her, she jutted her chest out and let her hand continue it’s descent. Heat rolled over her tightening sex, clit throbbing with each slow second. She hoped her self-control would keep, because even then and there the wild desire to straddle him was causing her heart to race. The plan and want to learn about his body fought against the long awaited opportunity to plunge herself over him, yet that same war within excited her. Using the soft pads of middle and forefinger, Araceli began to circle her hardening nub, teasing it into a tight little ball. Just that had her biting her bottom lip, breath hitching. Slow and steady, easing into the rush of ecstasy where nothing -- not even his sharp eyes -- could stop her. Her body sagged, relaxing at last.

She clenched her entire cunt, little rushes of pleasure coiling together right in her core. Time did not matter, only what she wanted and however long she desired it. He made no protest, only the nuanced shift of their bed telling of his own movements. He never looked away, it was obvious from the prickling sensation on her neck, a primal sign that something dangerous was eyeing her. And who could blame him, surely not her who used this knowledge to get off on -- fingers frantically pressing against her clit while also slipping up and down between her swelling lips. Was he focused on her sex, or maybe her face that had lulled to one side. Was he already in hand? How would that be when she had never seen it, and he primarily walked around with barely a belt and coat on. She needed to see him, to see if he was enjoying what they were doing, getting into it hopefully. So opening her eyes, Araceli felt her shoulders rise and a burning flush run over her entire body.

She didn’t need to pinch her nipples to know they had wrinkled up. All the hairs on her body raised with a horrible sting that wracked her body into a shudder. Still laying as he was before, the mutant was an erotic sight to behold. A part of her found it funny, imagining a pin-up page in a niche magazine with her partner’s physique plastered on it. A double-page, because his was quite large length and width wise, and she sure as hell would not want to miss any detail. There he was, laying mainly on his side, but also a bit over on his stomach, with his lower arm pillowing his head in a v-shape crook, and his other hand casually over his hip. The very hand rubbed between his large thighs in the same manner her own was over her clit, but where a dark spot was emerging over her’s, a shape was already protruding out of his. How much of it, she did not know, though she assumed it was maybe little over half-way there. And what had she ever imagined his cock to look like? Something alien, or maybe fantastical? Either way, in the now, she could positively say it was  _ something _ , but not far from normal. The size though...she was close, having only underestimated him a bit,  _ if _ he was already done revealing himself; her toy  _ definitely _ was a bit on the small side.

She was absolutely staring, feeling her hand stuttering between her thighs. Looking to his face had her stopping completely, hypnotized by his furrowed brow.

Leatherhead watched her eye his actions, closely observing those hazel eyes wash over every inch of him until they stopped at his heavy erection. In the most childish way of describing it, she was finally seeing his after showing her’s. There was not much work put in urging himself out, and that was how it always was when she was on his mind, plaguing him with wicked thoughts. Had she realized her free hand pulled her nipple out, fingering it with only the tip of a finger. He had eyed it pucker under such simple touches, the dark colored nub an eye-catcher against pale-pink and pale-brown flesh. Then his eyes had fallen between her thighs, noting her increase of speed, the bulging shape of her covered cunt, and a darkening spot begin to grow bigger in size. The pink lingerie tactfully made all these little details noticeable for the couple, and Leatherhead was grateful as he longed to taste her, to hook a claw under the fabric and  _ tear _ it away to reveal her pinkening desire. But he kept control, especially when her brown-green eyes widened once they fell on his emerging shape. A flicker of fear killed the mood, searching for any indication that perhaps this was all too much at once...but there wasn’t. No horror in those wide-eyes, only fascination. The way her lips puckered gently, creating a small ‘o’, was telling of her desire. She wasn’t disgusted, she was  _ aroused _ . This wasn’t her pathetic plastic toy, it was the real deal, it was him, and she still desired all of it.

He was completely out once her position changed. No longer on her knees, but rather on her hip. One arm extended out, holding all her weight up with an open palm downward. That's when she tried to sneak a finger under the cupping fabric of her lingerie, but his keen eyes caught the movement easily. No reveal, only a finger as if to test the waters. He wasn’t stroking himself anymore, he didn’t need to since he had completely revealed himself by now. Holding the head of it in his palm, he ran a thumb over his slickening tip. 

She removed the finger, and he could not help the guttural noise that erupted from his throat. Shining in the artificial light, her digit was wet, and the glint of it entranced him. Once more he can not take his eyes off her movements. She brought the finger a bit closer to observe it, then her lips curled up, as if her slick heat was funny to her. Perhaps it is not how it normally is for her, what they are doing may be affecting her hard like it was to him whose aching was harder than he has before. Whether or not it is true no answer comes and in the next moment she is slipping her hand down once more, this time moving the piece of fabric away, revealing what he has only seen a glance of. That time hardly counts when it was a video, there is much to miss on a recording. The reddening tips of her labia, the sheen of wetness from her hood down further towards her entrance. And the scent is there, though not for the first time it has enticed him; even before his eyes opened to the attraction and love it had flowed his way. A light musk he always ignored, embarrassed to think upon it and admit to the ability of knowing. Just like his ‘nest’, his sense of smell is discomforting when not assisting him in protection. Now it causes him to shiver, scales rippling down his back. This could end dangerously.

Araceli plunged two fingers in, beginning to feel the threads of her control slowly unwind. Each little stitch tearing away, leaving her bared and needy for more than simple rubbing. Restraint and teasing be damned. With no resistance, she pressed to the bend of both digits. At Least she wanted it to be slow, not daring to have her first orgasm so soon -- or at all until her partner was nearing his. It would be worth the wait in the end when the stockpile of aches finally eased down. One big burst that would leave her lost and dazed once more. Through hooded eyes the ballerina kept her sight on him, noting how his jaw clenched in the telltale tic that he was keeping his eyes from narrowing. Maybe that would be her goal for the night, driving him mad with lust and need.

She could not help but send glances down to his leaking length, watching how he pleasured himself. Again her cheeks seemed to burn in with a fury, as though it was not her right to watch her lover please himself. She had done it for him once already, why couldn’t she watch him now? Somewhere in the back of her head -- where it felt like they were both still new to one another and despised each other -- a little voice answered her:  _ this is a mutant, you’re a freak to do this. _ It wasn’t right, he could  _ kill _ her with no thought of it. And It was all true...and still she did not stop -- demanding her face to keep on the way he began to stroke himself. He must have been keeping with her pace, beginning to tug and roam his thumb over his cock in a slow manner. Biting her bottom lip to keep her focus, Araceli reminded herself of what she had long ago accepted: she was a  _ freak _ , and she was madly in love with a giant, gentle, brilliant crocodile-alligator mutant who owned the most gentle eyes and charming voice she had ever witnessed. And now both were locked on her and keeping his groans at bay. 

“Oh,  _ fuck _ ” She choked out, deepening each push in to her wet cunt until two knuckles hilted. Unable to keep herself aloft, Araceli lowered herself to her side, then rolled over to her back. Without shame her legs spread, and she pulled her lingerie behind the right side of her mound for better access. How badly she wanted to tear it off, but that would be more risky than either of them were used to. 

Leatherhead let his cheek fully lay on his pillowing arm, looking over the long, elegant line of her body. Shoulder down to her hand that hid between her lifted thighs and further over her smooth legs, a perfect flow to follow with his darkening eyes. The way her arm rocked with each thrust into her plush sex -- the nasty squelches that slowly rose -- he stood no chance in following her example. His was not as loud, but it was not silent, what little sound his pumping created seeming to chase after her’s like an addition to some erotic song. Together they indulged their bodies, near enough to feel the heat and damp air around each other radiating. A shine of sweat covered her brow, just as a coat of it glittered over his scales. That caught her attention, eyes widening and tracing over his hard skin as though he were a precious stone. 

Unable to deny his curiosity any longer, Leatherhead lifted to his forearm for a better view. At the dip of her pelvis laid her soaked folds, looking more beautiful than any flower he had ever seen. The aroma was no different, like a newly bloomed rose meant only for him. And if he could, there was no doubt her core would be the sweetest honey he’d ever devour. She was not holding back, having slipped a third finger to curl within herself. He returned her lazy gaze, finding no smile there, only wanton passion. Then he was back on her sex, and she was back to quickly fucking herself to reach an end.

Each thrust into herself left her wanting more and more. Each time his eyes met her own left her heart pounding behind her ribcage, demanding it be thrown into his hands to hold and love. He was watching her so intently, trying to get as much he could before they were back to keeping tame. She did the same, turning her head to better watch his hard cock fuck his large hand. He was perfectly proportioned to himself, fitting perfectly in his touch. He must have wanted more, because now he was on his knees….and her legs were not hers to control. They spread wider, revealing more between her lips, letting what cool breeze was left between them wash over her throbbing nerves within. 

Taking it as an invitation, his body took position in front of her. There she laid, bared for his own delight, breast heaving with each labored breath. The same urge to remove the damned lacey item returned, but there was only her stomach to reveal at this point -- the padded cups had pulled down from her peaking nipples. Affixed to those small points -- picturing how his longue tongue might encircle the pebbled tips, and his lips somehow surrounding them to suckle one -- Leatherhead found her lips just above. Her little pink tongue swiped over her abused bottom lip, then it was sucked up. Curious as to why, he caught her hooded look, following it down right over her own body and finally onto his -- straight at his thrusting cock. Heat flourished through him now, causing his chest to jut out akin to the way her shoulders would rise. 

She was eyeing his erection, it’s large size, and the thought could not have been any more apparent. The way she tilted her chin up, how she could not keep her mouth still as she bit her lips. He had imagined her of course servicing him with her mouth Ever since her fall, seeing her below him with those hazel eyes craning to look up at him, at perfect with his abdomen. How she plagued him with so many pleasures, it was unfair of him to want so much from her. Now his thoughts wandered to one of the many unchaste desires, knowing how velvety those swollen lips were first hand from their kisses and when she’d brush them over his hands. To feel them on his tender cock, to finally put a solid sensation to his wild imagination. 

He looked back up. How many times would their sights lock before the dam broke? 

Stuck on her rosy-dark cheeks and parted lips, Leatherhead dared to venture closer. The soles of her feet hesitantly pressed on his wide thighs, touching once, pulling back, then slowly pressing down to let her feet rest. His knees began to part, taking her thighs with him, and he pushed his luck with how far she would allow him to go. Wide was all he could describe it as -- her one-piece of sheer fabric and lace tightening over her lithe body. The bottom part bunched and her sweet cunt was all his to behold as it parted for him; shaven for her dancing and comfort. The size of her hit him, doubt setting in as he watched her three fingers seemed to fill her more than enough (a misinformed assumption on his part when she knew four, even five could fit). But then her hips rose, rolling with her pumping fingers, skin slapping away. It would be a tight fit, he thought suddenly. Nothing they couldn’t overcome over if they took their time like they had so far. The squeeze would be wonderful too, and filling her until her voice was hoarse caused his blood to boil. He looked over her eyes, lashes brushing over her warmed cheeks.

Together they continued to please themselves. Skin hot with sweat and bodies bubbling release. The air humid between them as Leatherhead rested between her thighs. He didn’t dare to close in any further, not wanting to brush over her with his cock ready to burst. That wasn't something they had planned on, only mutual masturbation to watch one another without judgement (not that there ever would be). A way to break the ice before the final dip in --literally and figuratively. Even now Araceli’s anxiety was building, an innate caution that something big and inhuman was alarmingly close to her vulnerable body. She used it as further motivation to come, letting the thrill of her partner’s large body so close to her surge into her leaking sex; and they both knew of it, the pounidng of her heart alongside the scent of  _ caution  _ tickling at the mutant’s nose. 

Higher and higher they reached, eyes never leaving one another. Faster, harder, louder, needier, Araceli could not stop her breathless whines from leaving her throat, just as Leatherhead’s deep groans vibrated from his chest did not obey his restraint. 

It was far more intimate than what either of them were used to, especially Araceli with her healthy sex life. There was no timer on how long they wanted to go, nor indication of time in the abandoned train station. Only two bodies echoing together with endless desire gone unanswered for so long. He was so close yet so far, only her spread feet on his muscular thighs connected them. 

It was Araceli who came first, the ardent pull of pleasure sending her over the edge. She snapped her head to one side and her shoulders rose up as her orgasm shot through her. A pitiful cry hiccuped from between her reddened lips, body shaking where it laid.

“ _ Fuck, Leatherhead, I -- !! _ ” 

In a whirlwind of green, the mutant pulled away, letting her feet fall. Throwing himself to the floor on his hip, he led himself to his end. The boiling pot inside bubbled and clattered; his claws stretched, but he knew better then to let them touch the mattresses. Propped on his forearm once more, Leatherhead released a low roar, ducking his head away from his lover, fearing she may find it too monstrous of him. Doing his best to not let himself spill over the sheets --  _ again _ \-- he came in his palm. 

It took a few minutes to come down from the end, but Leatherhead was able to grab one of his usual blankets to wipe his hand on, throwing it far away from them. Suddenly a hand was on his ankle, and he snapped his head towards it. There he found Araceli curled over on her back towards him, stretching over to brush over his still heated skin. She was a mess, strands of hair sticking to her forehead and temples, eyes heavy with exhaustion and glossed over from the dwindling lust.

“Fuck, that was intense.” She grinned, wide and proud.

Rising to sit up on his knees and flop right next to her -- making her jump from the weight difference and giggle -- he looked into her eyes, as if they had not done enough of that already . “Was that enough for you?”

“Oh yeah, I made sure to edge myself to keep it going.”

“Ah, I see,” He smirked. “Do not think that will work again, because I intend to see you unravel.”

The laughter that flowed from her filled his stomach with butterflies. She was beautiful in the afterglow, a wild woman with nothing keeping her from letting everything let loose and free. Passing a glance towards her bared nipples, Leatherhead could see they were back to being soft and round and altogether tempting to lick over. Lower he saw her sex covered once more, and he realized he hadn’t seen her orgasm flow from it. He had been so awestruck from her cry of his name, it was either be rude and watch as his own orgasm rushed through him, or be polite and keep from embarrassing himself. 

She must have been looking him over too. “...I forgot you had a tail. Where was it this whole time?”

Oh yes, his cursed appendage he held a love or hate relationship with. “I curled it around my ankle….it has a mind of its own.”

“Does it thump like a dog’s tail?” Her eyes widened and her mouth gaped.

“An unfortunate mutation, yes.” He watched her grin return. “It is more uncommon then not, and quite honestly….only around you, and once upon a time Donatello.” He turned his eyes away.

“I’m so honored, like, for real. No one’s ever thumped their tail for me.” Was her earnest, yet playful reply; when he turned back to see if she was still grinning, he found her eyes also crinkling . “Ok that’s a bit of a lie, but a dick doesn’t count as a tail -- right?”

How absolutely absurd, lewd, and funny. “Depends, why did it happen?”

She squealed with laughter. “Shut up leatherhead! I was joking!”

“I would not put it past a human with a penis to make a show of it.”

“I get it, you hate humans.” 

“I do not hate you…”

“I would hope not after what we just did.”

Araceli scooted herself closer, pushing the fake candles away with her arm so they were pushed off the bed. Before he could reach an arm over to lay atop her, she shot up. 

“Let me change first, this thing is all gross with sweat.” She got to her feet, but then swayed. “Woah.. damn, I’m a little weak.”

“Need assistance?”

Shaking her head to not only clear it, but to say no, the ballerina scurried away. Left to catch his breath some more, Leatherhead closed his eyes, releasing a loud, satisfied sigh. He could not tell how long he laid like that on his stomach, but soon Araceli was back and wearing an oversized t-shirt with only her underwear underneath. The shirt flowed as she closed the curtain then turned to him. On her face was a smile and eyes soft as they fell onto him. She lowered herself onto her side, scooting closer to him once more. He turned on his side as well and stretched out his lower arm to curl under her body, pulling her in close to hide against his broad chest.

“I really like your scales….they were shining.” She murmured against his leathery skin, the vibrations roaming through his body.

“I’m glad you liked them so much.”

“I like everything about you. Tonight just reaffirmed it.”

“And I as well -- from your round eyes, down to the hard ballerina skin of your soles.” 

She lifted her head up, a sly little expression on her face. “Even my chapped lips?”

He reached his hand from over her body and pinched her chin between two fingers. Leatherhead hummed. “ _ Especially _ your lips, which are anything but chapped.” 

Tilting her face up high for better access, he pulled her bottom lip down with the pad of his thumb. Her lashes fell, setting a carnal gaze his way. Leaning down he pressed his tongue against her own, then, after a brush over to beckon him deeper, the mutant delicately filled her mouth. Keep from pressing the whole of him against her, they were able to press lips, and Araceli moaned. Far better than before, he was luckily a quick learner. A more appropriate kiss he made sure to keep for tamer situations -- like now -- instead of filling her completely as they had been doing. The sound of their kiss mixed with her little keens, wet on wet, and when he pulled away, she was once again a flushing mess.

“I love you, LH.” Her voice was a whisper while she grinned.

“And I you, Sunshine.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized a mistake in the roles assigned to Araceli, Riley, and Anton, and fixed them. And when it comes to the video, 2:23 is the multiple twirls Araceli performs.
> 
> Please do Comment, tell me what you thought <3 It helps drive me to write faster.


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